The moon whispers forgotten tales, echoing through the corridors of time. Only the waves remain, eternal and relentless, erasing the marks of ancient rites, no more than a specter in shadow.
In twilight, Pilgrims prepare for rituals beneath the stars, veiled in mysteries older than the whispers of the pouring rain. Yet silence draws them in, not voices, not winds, just dreams brushed upon the evening’s canvas.
Memory, an unreliable friend, drifts like the solitary ship on an empty sea.
At the edge of everything, dances a flicker of candlelight. Unseen hands craft circles in sand - sacred geometries kept safe by the stars, unwritten by the dawn, undone by breath.
When the sea remembers tomorrows, onceevenings
return to the reflections.