In the shadow of the equator, where the night whispers secrets to passing stars,
lies a forgotten dance. Once, eons ago, it mattered profoundly to those
who listened in the twilight. The moons, guardians of time's veil, turned
their gaze downwards, weaving silent songs into the air.
Beneath a canopy of stars, She moved. Lyra was her name,
a seeker of rhythms lost to human lore.
Each step upon the sodden earth resonated
with the pulse of Luna's distant call.
The echoes traced her path, a blueprint in motion.
The dance drew upon ancient whispers documented in the ruins scattered
across the equatorial stretch—like vessels capturing the fallen dreams of
an age untouched by time. The ancients painted figures framed in radiant
light, traces of her movement frozen in time.
Around her, the cosmos synchronised; she was not alone but part
of something greater. The lunar dance dictated
by pulses unmeasurable by earthly instruments—
a rhythm cruelly detached, painfully beautiful.
Echoes of forgotten myths divert in the distance; she was painted
across the canvas of interstellar midnight.
Continue reading...
or perhaps... listen more closely to what is not said.