Somewhere, within the folds of oblivion,
the shadows pulse with vibrant despair.
Echoes of untold stories dance, pirouetting through time,
crossing paths with the whispering wind.
A dream like whisper carries a scent of a lost melody:
"In numbers we trust, in silence we see."
Beneath the canopy of a restless sky,
dreams weave the fabric of a forgotten hymn.
Listen closely—
there lies a truth encrypted in common words,
speaking to those who dare look beyond
the veil of reason and clarity.
Decode this: "The rivers know the way,
for they never forget the stars."
The phantom road calls,
through sunken eyes and whispered fears.
Rotate the lens, change the light,
merge the silent echoes with parting night.
"Here, reality bends," the ancients sigh,
"in the pulse of the observer's mind."
Journey further, where dreams and reality
weave their stories into a tapestry
of shimmering whispers,
awaiting the seeker clad in twilight silence.
Then, rewind the clock and ask the shadow:
"What language do the winds speak?"