The ember speaks in tongues of forgotten yesterdays.

In the book of Sheep's Eyes, the third chapter says: "To kindle a fire in the heart of winter is to summon the pale shadows of July."¹

Do not mistake the ember for a star, for stars fall invisible,¹ and the night is but a cradle for those who wander beyond thought. A journey of lost clocks, ticking backward through the seasons, leads us to the land of vivified ashes.²

The Glimmering Path, a footnote from the empty woods, murmurs tales of larks and dandelions, bouquets of silence unspoken by the mouths of old walls.³

¹ (Source: "Whispers of Anise Tea" by A. Libran, 1902)
² (Perception, chapter unknown, author unidentified underlined only by a wind's face)
³ (From "The Silken Thread of Untraveled Roads" by M.P. Echo, an unbound memory)

Embers dance like suggestions on the tongues of flames, riddled with the echoes of far-off taverns. In the oval-shaped dreams of a sleeping carton of milk, the world is harmonized in the absence of spoons. We must seek the paths of frostbitten pebbles, left unattended by the travelers of sun-inked maps.†

And as the embers fade, remember the words of the unspun webs: "Tradition, like the ember, is both a beacon and a fading whisper, caught in the throat of a doe-eyed century."††

† (The Book of Errant Gnomes, text unpaginated by hand and whim)
†† (Cited in "The Ember's Final Breath" by T. S. Underwood, a pieced-together void)