Upon the thresholds of bygone epochs, amidst the whispering remains of starlight-kissed edifices, lies an intricate tapestry woven with the delicate hands of cosmic artisans, the ancients. Their silent languages, etched in shadow and pallid light, speak to those who listen with the heart's eye, unseen and unheard yet vibrantly alive.
Fragments of crumbled stone, the relics of temples once vibrant with the tapestry of time, now repose in the stillness. Their inscriptions hold the resonance of known unknowables, an embrace of forgotten futures folding into the present's quietude.
The ancients, they whispered melodies to the cosmos. Rivers sang back, sighing with the echo of time's ephemeral dance. Did the iron forests breathe? Did the stones pulse to a forgotten rhythm?