Somewhere between sun-scorched whispers
And moonlit shadows, the Sphinx waits,
Its voice—a ripple in time, an echo of echoes,
Speaking only when stars forget their names.
Mirage of wisdom
Riddles etched in sand and silence,
To answer or to dissolve into the breeze?
The question is a navigation through illusions.
In this world where echoes are silent
And words dance wildly across the dunes,
We seek the call of forgotten deities,
The laughter of marionettes in dusk's embrace.
Wanderers tread lightly,
For the Sphinx's gaze pierces the fabric of dreams,
Turning folly into fate,
And whispers into the howl of ancient storms.
Discover more at Wind Songs or traverse the Echo Cascade.