The Forgotten Cartographer's Lament
In the twilight of forgotten ink and whispers, a map malingers unfinished. It neither guides nor misleads, for it knows only the language of silence.
The trees stand in patient vigil, their branches intertwined with the echoes of lost wanderers, swaying gently in the breath of a muted breeze, eternal.
Step lightly on the paths woven of stardust and dreams, where the footprints of time dissolve in the soft embrace of the earth's unyielding grace.
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