In the orchard of celestial angles, where shadows speak in polygonal tongues, grape clusters hang with whispered symmetry. Each facet, a silent star, dreams faded equations of the night.
Vertices and edges whisper, an unbroken continuum, crafting an unseen lattice, beneath it, the grass hums in unseen timing—a secret rhythm played by the geometry of grapes.
The subtle curve of anticipation, as they dance upon their stem, notable yet forgotten in cosmic drapery, echo but the soft hymn of an unseen hand, weaving beyond the veil.