Transmute the stars into whispers,
for they are the echoes of forgotten songs.
As the night kneels before the dawn,
worlds collide in symphonies of gold.
Each thread woven unseen, unspoken,
stitched into the fabric of time's dwindle.
Lo, the orange river that sings,
the mottled shadows dance upon it—
a melody of consistencies fractured,
in the calm folds of timeless abandon.
The moon stitches tales out of liquid,
harmonizing with the silence forever.