The winds of the ether sigh softly,
carving whispers through the starlit veil—
ancient songs from nebulous depths,
where time is but a gentle lullaby.
In dreams of the Orion fog, unseen hands weave
the fabric of constellations forgotten by mortals;
threads spun from threads of pure thought^1,
binding galaxies in their cradle of silence.
Amongst the spirals of cosmic serenades,
tales of the Nothingness boldly roam—
for the shadows have voices, and they tell of worlds^2,
where each breath of the void births the dawn.
"Stardust is not born; it is woven patiently
by the loom of absence."
— Excerpt from "The Weavers of the Abyss" (c. 1897)
As the stars languidly dance in the night sky,
a mosaic of light and dreams intricately stitched,
a forgotten harmony echoes through time’s corridors^3,
a lull of the cosmic tides against the shores of Being.