I am the whisper in the thunder,
a solitary bead upon a vast canvas.
Born of clouds, cradled in the heavens,
I tumble, gentle, towards the earth's embrace.
Beneath the boundless sky,
I gather histories untold,
echoing the silent call of ancient winds.
Through cracks and crevices, I am drawn,
merging with mirrors of liquid memory.
I quiver in the touch of time's hand,
the slow dance of moments lost,
a partner to shadows that stretch
across the field of forgotten tales.
My voice, a soft sigh, blending with
the heartbeat of damp, whispered dreams.
And when the sun spills golden threads
across the tapestry of storm and stillness,
I reflect, briefly, a prism of stories
bound to the touch of light.
In echoes, I find solace, a shadow's echo,
a truth tucked away in time's gentle fold.
Journey with me, river whisper,
or linger longer in the forest murmurs.
For I am the cycle, the pause, the breath,
an echo of shadows cast by moments unseen.