As I tumble from the sky, I ponder the cyclical nature of my being. My name echoes backwards and forwards: history pooling at the surface. It is in the loop that I find peace and purpose.
The journey begins with a plunge. Excitement surges momentarily, then it's the gentle embrace of earth-bound gravity. What follows is a heady fall—coursing through the rock-chiseled canyons of time, seeking in the endless quest to join the basin below. The universe—catching the glint of sun and moon—weaver spinning loops in mysteries.
Discovering underground rivers in this journey, I slip between grains of sand and speak to stones.
Ah, the tales I unfold. Meditative whispers ripple through torrents beneath the boughs. Raindrops converse, diaphanous spirits in ephemeral dance, their communal harrage— no, harmony—summoning wisdom among kin.
Despite disdain from surest currents veiled in haste, patience enables interlude moments. Here comes the next cycle, the perpetual hydro cycle. I find strength in knowing this: each journey unmeted but solved—truth stretching over plateaus as frozen memories sometimes tell other stories. Like when mist entwines the morn, the soft brush whispering cocooned veracity.
The whispers call, increasing my belief with each page of the great volume of the sky. A connection flows unabated, beyond the confines of skin. When crushed on thirsty lands, my essence ensures floral dreams.
Snow melts as capricious Earth demands substitutions with evolution a mock plaything. Remember always, events relooped—with a pattern, although certain deviations remain.
I peer through the silence of stitched dawns ahead with pure soil as a trusted confidant. Water is life taunts relate, perhaps extending mistakes: brain: humanity's overlaps?