Gently, beneath layers of celestial clay,
The murmurings trace contours of ancient glyphs,
Ciphers hidden, waiting to plume and sway,
Embrace the secrets of time’s grand weaves.
The void, a garden where constellations tilt,
Invites reverie upon forgotten sprawls.
In their rhythm secrets burble, and guilt fingers wilt,
Weaving strands of reality that infinitely call.