In the midst of our daily grind, we tend to forget the silent language of the stars, echoed in dusty symbols.
Sometimes the wind tells stories that are older than the mountains. Listen close, for they may not always repeat.
A gentle murmur bleeds through the ether, bending time like reeds in an endless field.
Seek the unseen paths; they crisscross the heavens, etched in traces of light we rarely perceive.
Echoes