In the stillness of twilight, when shadows meld and speak,
An old man whispers secrets of stars fallen from grace.
His voice, a thread of silk, woven through the fabric of silence,
Untangles mysteries of the moon's tender light.
He sits upon a stone, carved by time and forgotten rains,
Eyes like sunken wells, deep and uncharted, filled with the echo
Of the first ripples of dawn, yet unraveling their stories.
Wind carries his breath, a fragrance of fading lilac and warmth.
Listen closely, with ears attuned to the hourglass's ticking.