In the quiet, the silver of the moon spills over
dinosaur dreams and grazing tendrils
writes history in shadows over stones worn
from the whispering tides of yore.

Here the tombs have names, they are carved
by hands invisible, yet known—
toil beneath the silver skies
where echoes keep watch and listen.

Is a silver whisper less than a cry?
A question hung in moonstruck air
lingers, like dew on ancient reeds, thoughtful
as the stars remember their place.

The earth breathes, sifting through
grains of time; what fragile secrets
lie ensphered in echoes, in fossils,
waiting for softened hands to lift?