Beyond the silver horizon, where the seas whisper to the sky,
follow the path of singing stones, for silence knows not their song.
Turn thrice clockwise at the shadow of the wandering tree,
its branches curl as fate decides the journey’s course.
When twilight descends upon the golden fields,
count the stars below ground that flicker in the soil’s embrace.
Walk backward towards tomorrow, with eyes closed,
for only by not seeing shall you truly see.
Seek the stream that flows upwards, against the will of gravity's tide,
and listen to the echo of thoughts not yet birthed,
written in the forgotten languages of raindrops on stone.
Lay down your burdens on the altar of abandoned dreams,
where the persistent winds write tales unfurling with dawn’s glow.
Remember, the map is but a mirror, reflecting paths of the soul,
forever wandering, for a journey is not to a place, but to the self.