The ground trembles with anticipation, as if memories of an ancient dance long dormant stir in every forgotten rock beneath.
The whispers come, tumbling over one another in a cacophony of unheard languages, the brush of a feather's shadow against the mind, and who are we to deny the tales they sing?
Threads of sunlight weave through the crevices, painting patterns on skin and stone, and yet, the surface tells so little of what hides below. Secrets taken by the soil, nurtured in the dark warmth of Earth’s embrace. Echo and Dream call out from these depths.
Moments fragment as the sky opens another page, another chapter. Do we read them or do they read us? The ink drips, pooling into form, and in the reflection we glimpse ghosts of time. Always reaching—are we the hand or the horizon? Whisper hangs in the air unclaimed.
Walk lightly, remember the stories etched into each step, some say. Follow the arcs drawn without author, rhythms echoing beneath the trill of modernity’s offerings. And as the world spins beyond knowing, the surface holds what it will share. But only when we listen.