In a realm draped in twilight, beyond the reach of the bowing sun,
there lies a parchment steeped in echoes—an entry by the silent pen.
The ink flows like rivers through valleys unseen, tracing dreams
where cartographers of the night scribe stars upon their lonesome maps.
Over hills made of whispers, beneath skies spun from silvered thoughts,
the paths unfurl, woven by hands of time—not yet embraced by dawn.