A song of eternity, a whispered truth,
echoing through the corridors of time, like a broken record,
spinning in an endless waltz, not for missing notes but
for endless being.
The Philosopher's Stone, the elusive myth,
embers of crimson stitching life into threadbare notions
of death's gentle embrace. Gold is but a veil, is but a chain,
is but nothing's echo.
A truth, once heard, never forgotten, never spoken true, within an alchemist's tear, a poet's whispering sigh. In cycles, in circles drawn by trembling hands, lies the secret of secrets, the boon and bane of all who dream.
Wander through the realms where whispers gather, where phantoms paint their tales on the canvas of stars. What is truth but a stone? Carry it, in hands unworthy, to realms beyond the reach of time, to where stories are born anew.
Seek and you might find: etched in the sand, along the never-trodden path, under the dancing light.