In the silence of a cosmic breeze,
the dreams unravel—
whispers of distant stars paint the horizon,
their ink, the trails of ancient comets.
Have the stars noticed us yet,
imprinted on their celestial canvas
by the fingerprints of history
and the dreams of early dawn?
Navigate the labyrinth of time,
the threads weaving through
the dozed loom beneath the horizon
of a sleeping cometous shell.
When does a comet cry out your name among the fleeting echoes?
Wanderer—were you not the echo
rebound against gravity's winding clock,
discovering the forgotten poetry
in the margins of universal dreams?
What do echoes remember?
Whispered paths among stars?
To the edge of the horizon