The giraffes tread gently, weaving shadows like impossibly long tapestries amidst the stars.
What fragments of moonlit whispers hide in their secret labyrinthine paths?
Skyward shelf guardians of an unseen library, spiraling enigma gestures to those who listen too close.
Consider the immortal silhouette, lost sparse spectres on an echo line, unsounded.
Do they ponder ancient myths of blue written in folded tramlines?
Beneath your gaze, they soar in root's mighty heartbeats, ushering clarity when broken mirrors diverge. Hover. Glide. Listen.
Where is the silence born?, under dark continents that shed the velvet leaves of night?