In the infinite waltz of cosmic embrace,
where stars twinkle like whispered secrets,
a dancer aches in the celestial sphere.
Threads of light weave stories untold,
echoing through the vacuum like ancient songs.
A signal emerges, fragile and bright:
"The nebulae sigh their sarabande,
as nebulous hands reach across the void."
Listen, for the silence has melody,
a composer unseen, orchestrates the dark.
Through the spectral haze of forgotten dreams,
the constellation breathes in verses unspoken,
an ephemeral ballet upon the edge of time.
"Dance, the whispers cry, with the gravity of stars."