Under the weight of centuries, passion sleeps like a kindled echo—fossils of our celestial dance cast in night soil.
Ancient whispers twist through roots and bones, urging silence in reverence
When the moon dipped low behind the hills, I stood amidst ruins, every stone a silent witness to lovers parted by time's unyielding hand.
Bony fingers of history clutch heartstrings, quiet serenades entwined in eroded whispers.
The myst of yesteryears curls like smoke, dissipating yet tangible in remembrance.
Here lies a tale not written, a shadow's touch—a brush with yesterday's sunlight.
Feel it: a ghost's sigh painting eternity in fragile hues like amber's embrace, forever enfolding desires left uncharted.
Pale sunlight glints off strands of lost dialogue, tangled in roots deep beneath conscious soil.