In the twilight of memory, when the sands still whispered secrets of ancient scripts
and moonlight danced on hieroglyphs of forgotten tongues, there lay echoing dreams.
An inscription carved not in stone, but into the marrow of silence,
Unreadable but familiar, like the comforting hum of a long-lost home.
Words that speak of vast deserts,
Traversed by caravans of thought and reflection
In paths mere mortals tread but lightly.