Where the sky kisses the unbleached fabric of existence, there lay pathways unseen. A dance of whispers traverses those paths, weaving through the dreams of sleeping poppies.
Time tumbles like a child over gentle hills, wrapped in the symphonies of nothingness. Threadlike etchings on the cosmos, a voice fading, shadows playing tricks upon the eyes.
Silent to some, utterances resigned to those who dare to listen: "The compass of hearts knows only the soft whispers of meadows." Untie the knots binding cerulean clouds and release the secrets anew.