In an age before the clamor, where echoes held secrets
of stars not yet born, a whisper meandered through
canyons of solitude—a faint variable, upon its breath
the dust of aeons mingled with the scent of primordial
silence, fossilizing itself in the marrow of rock.
Through the veil of time, labored thoughts drifted,
saturated with the weight of unformed dreams,
their faint variables etched in the sand by unseen
hands, now long gone. Each curve and groove tells
a tale of solitude, a story of being, of not being.