"When the horizon whispers, do the stars still listen?" asked the dune.
"Only when gravity weeps," replied the crescent moon, its light a distant echo.
"Perhaps the sands could sing then," the trail mused, "if only melodies weren't so heavy."
The wind carries tales, untold and unheld, where silence dares not tread.
In this endless expanse, the very thoughts seem weightless.
What do footprints mean but conversations with a transient sky?