In the stillness below the stars, where echoes dance like fireflies,
I wonder — are we whispers locked in a vault of space,
searching for replies in unseen constellations?
The path beneath our feet, a glimmering trace of moonlight,
is it not a tide that swells with each heartbeat
weaving through dimensions like threads in a celestial loom?
Listen, and you will hear the antique stars converse
not with words, but with silences
heavy and rich as the ancient sayers of time.
Yet here, amid reflections of forgotten light,
a voice without gravity asks:
How do you speak against the pull of earthly gravity,
adrift in galaxies that hum a lullaby above?
In truth, the ground is wherever you choose to stand.
And so you do, cradle light with your hands
and with the tenderness of a dream, lay it upon your shoulders.