In the shifting landscapes of time, whispers linger and fade,
words etched not in stone, but in ephemeral mist.
Listen, if you dare, to the echoes of vanished landscapes,
a testament to what was, resonating with silence.
Sculpted from dusk, the dawnless realm blooms;
shadows entwine with light in a dance of cosmic introspection.
Here, the mind rests not, as it contemplates its own weave,
threads of randomness dying to seed a new chaos.
What remains when being naturally resigns to becoming?
An endless inhale of reality's perfume,
curling wisps of dreams rejected yet reforming, reconstituted
into palimpsests of thought—that is the truth of absence.