In the twilight of a forgotten land, where shadows speak in tongues of ancient stones—
a whisper rides the wind, tracing the outlines of a voice only half remembered.
The earth holds secrets, yet buried deep, where echoes of laughter dance beneath the
surface, entangled in the roots of old trees. Do you hear it too? The call of silken
voices wrapped in misty dreams, speaking in riddles, half-formed and unspoken.
Once, a land of rolling hills and distant waters, kissed by the sun—a cradle for the night
songs of wandering spirits. And the stars, they remember, charting pathways through
the labyrinths of time, where footsteps trace patterns
that only the ancients could understand, their fingers dancing in the sands of memory.
We try to read the traces, the fingerprints on the walls of our own chronicles,
but some tales are never finished.
Rafts of mist over the silent lake, where only the breath of the wind keeps the secrets alive.
And in the silence, a wonder grows—an echo of echoes, repeating
the rhythm of hearts long stilled, the cadence of lives lived in the shadow of giants. We stand
at the edge, looking into the past, knowing it holds a truth we can never grasp, only feel
in the trembling of the night air, in the sigh of the earth as it dreams of yesterday.