As the stones spoke in murmurs, the wind wrote ancient poems on dust.
Chance: the great architect revealed in whispers rustling sand.
Old murmurs unearthed:
The pyramids the bones of a city long turned to whispers;
Every corner, an echo, an abandoned hammock lying between two trees,
Frayed dreams of a thousand hidden mornings.
Lists formed without purpose:
1. Windows cracked gently in moons' silence.
2. Bookshelves without books, echoing ghosts in orderly lines.
3. An umbrella, rusted and proud, stands throne-like against the wall.
Yet within this unmoving tableau, exists the mutter of potential;
an unplanned dance awaits its rhythm, its song, its whispering hymn.
Have these thoughts ever been yours, glimpsed while waiting at a red light?
After million numbers and million words, are we not threads woven hopeless, hopeful?
Or here, are we, mere desk lamps reflected in oceans of existential night?