In the depths of a midsummer's night, where emerald stars fractally pulse beneath a velvet cloak of shadow, the sanctuary breathes. Winds curl gently across the obsidian ridges, whispering forgotten tales of muted grandeur.
Algae like luminous moth wings explore the nearest unfurling darkness, illuminating figures caught in eternal vigil. They overlap like shards of an ethereal mirror; forth in glowy plumes, each blink drifts ever useful outovers.
These winds cradle unvoiced hymns, as they kiss the spectral residues left afloat by slumberous echoes. Do stones sing here, among melittal fields beneath hush, twinkling soft rust to fading dusk?