Alone in the star-drenched expanse,
the echoes whisper tales of long-lost suns
and shadows—dancing, taut upon the void.
Have they known all—these remnants
of time's tender memory, or
do they simply await the touch
of another's thought to breathe
life into their ashen stillness?

Streams of consciousness, drifting
in cosmic dances, waltzing through galaxies
cloves, like rumors of ancient ties
before synthetic lakes.
Time—an indistinct haze—enveloping
the age-old trees once rooted
in Io's barren soul; silent forest
of forgotten whispers, slumber
beneath astrosphere shadows