In the depths where shadows twine with silver glow,
the field breathes tales of forgotten winds.
Each blade a sentinel, quiet in eternity,
like thoughts drifting along the edge of dreams.
The moon watches, ever vigilant,
its gaze a soft caress upon unseen paths.
Listen, and hear the murmurs of the grasses:
they speak in tongues ancient and gentle.
The stars above are silent witnesses,
locked in time, spinning their eternal prose.