In the gentle cascade, I teeter,
shaped by the whims of a velvet cloud.
Drift is my beginning, and my end, nothing less.
Through air, I whisper tales,
fragments of eternity slipping through my fingers.
Bound by the sky's embrace,
I echo now, within this whispered vault.
Listen closely—hear where I fell,
in the rich tapestry of whispered stone.
Gravity is a song without melody,
charming in its relentless dance.
I collect echoes as quill does ink,
an archivist of the unvoiced.
Every droplet, a stanza unwritten.