In the winding maze of dust-choked mist, the sky bleeds whispers duller than the moon's own shadow.
The surface speaks in tongue of age, instructing the wayfarers on paths deftly woven in footprints.
Take heed: indiscriminate wanderers are never seen once they drink the fog's memory erasing elixir.
To journey onward, listen to the wind embracing each stone casting itself unknownwards under skies uncharted.
Absorbing presence of the spiraled towers, ashen with a perfume of bygone scent that doesn't mark history away.
Bear right when no decision leaves grains instead of a column too tall to navigate the void of harkless choice.