The petals fall, soft whispers of the cosmos, speaking in tongues of the forgotten gods.
Intertwined thoughts, like roots beneath the ancient temple, seeking moisture in the drought of clarity.
Is harmony a melody played alone, or a symphony of unvoiced notes, echoing in the void?
Breath of the wind, the scent of thousand memories, each a blooming contradiction.
To see the unseen, one must traverse the landscape of thought, with skies made of flowers.
Chaos and order, a tale retold
Echoes of shadow, truth's companion
And so the temple stands, not of stone, but of stories unwoven, yet tightly held in the embrace of the eternal.