The solstice whispers to the stars, an unending dance of twilight reveries and shadow beneath eclipsing light a reflection of cycles unbroken, riffling whose echoes hum in silent concentric circles breathing in, breathing out the moment, the arc of every repetition grows solemn and sacred, grounded in dreamspace.
Floating thoughts they sink into sunken constellations, ripples upon tepid lakes that calligraphy the past forgotten the nocturne seed reconnects a memory not a memory but a construction built by many hands binding the ephemeral, binding fabric.
Hear the chants, hear the repetitions hear the prismatic truth dissolve becoming becoming never ceasing to unravel a balmy architecture ebbing and flowing with perpetual refrain lines drawn between twilight sparkling, where shadows play yet never depart.
In Other Whispers