Whispers of the Wanderer

Upon the brow of twilight, the silent echoes fashion words that float, yet tethered to the unspoken dawn.

The symphony of shadows sings in tongues unknown, where syllables dance, a marionette's masquerade.

Can you hear the murmur of hidden paths, the caress of invisible hands upon the fabric of understanding?

Follow the hue of silence, for the path is not made of earth or stone, but of whispers and echoes.

The compass spins in circles, a jester's laughter at the folly of direction when purpose is a spectral illusion.