In the twilight between starlight and slumber, the celestial parchment unfurls. Here lies a whisper, a fleeting echo: "Does the universe not sigh in hues of forgotten dreams?" A question posed to the cosmos, seeking solace in ghostly nebulae.
Upon the tapestry of the firmament, written in stardust, are the verses of an ancient hymn. "Eons pass like tears upon the cheek of eternity," it murmurs, a soft lament over the constellations' dirge.
Suspended between realms, a message drifts: "To touch the untouchable, to hear the unheard, is to dance with cosmic shadows," a truth ensconced in the embrace of infinite voids.
There lies a forgotten tale of Lunaris, the star that weeps light. "Bathe in my luminance, O wanderers, for it is a mirror of your souls," it sings, calling to lonesome galaxies.
The celestial clock ticks, yet its echoes are hushed. "Time is a labyrinth of whispered moments," declares the silence, a reminder etched in the mystery of space.