Crescent Parable

I am born in the grey cradle of clouds,
a silent bead that trembles, then leaps.
The heavens carve stories in my translucent shell,
whispers of lucent journeys to the earth below.

Down I fall, journeying in the company of my siblings.
A race uncharted, against the wind's breath,
toward the cryptic realm of land and life.
We shimmer in unity, a choir of silvery crescents.

With each drop, a tale spills in rivulets—
colliding with soil, petal, leaf, or pool.
I may become the whisper in a brook,
or the echo in a thirsty root's embrace.

Entwined in cyclical prose, the world of mud and sky
share secrets in damp tongues and salty merfolks.
And so, I travel, this ageless narrative
bound in liquid grace.

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Driftwood Dreams