A stream runs not through liquid, but through echoes.
The whispers that trace the edges of what is known
Were once a symphony of forgotten voices.
Once upon a sequence of turning stars,
The fields kept a secret—a shimmer running
Beneath the soil's serene facade, awaiting tender memories.
A memory, mystic as the rain falls
And enigmatic as the warmth of astray sun,
Expels the shadows from wildflower faces.
The mirroring of Murmurs;
A mirrored whisper echoing eternally——