The murmurs of ages drift like leaves, caught in an autumn breeze. Fragments of tales, once vibrant, now swirl in the void.
Upon the lips of time, words dissolve, leaving imprints of shadows.
The clock is a reverse pendulum, swinging towards the dawn of what never was, painting the sky in hues of vanished daylight.
We walk in circles, tracing paths forgotten by the one who walks beside us in dreams.