In the garden where whispers cleave to shadows,
the mist speaks softly, an instruction manual for the soul.
Follow the path etched in fog,
where ephemeral lessons impart wisdom in intangible scripts.

Touch the dew-laden leaves, feel them hum with
secrets of ages past, tales not told but felt.
Here, the clocks tick counter-clockwise,
teaching patience in an ever-turning world.

Listen well, for the echoes of the subconscious
resonate in a language of ink and silence.
The mists write stories upon the canvas of time,
read them with eyes that do not see, but understand.