Chronicles of a Dancing Drop

I am the echo of the ancient whispers,
born from the sigh of an elder cloud.
In a cradle of azure skies, I have wandertailed,
tracing paths on leaf and stone, in soft refrain.

Through trembling air, I dive
feeding roots, carving cups
and embracing the delicate dance of drought
then restore the withered tongues of Earth.

Once, a relic touched me with trembling
fractured, silent from times of yore.
Its secret pulse pulsed through my essence,
forgotten tales of glory, and war-and-remorse.

Fleeting, fleeting...
we are but a thread in time's loom.
Yet I cling to the grand story, noble and calm,
woven through innumerable drops, stories untold.

Where do you walk, water cycle's end?

The cradle of every beginning is as my kin
the humble silversmith that shells eternity
into half-broken vessels of history and lore.