In the quiet intervals of green, there lie whispers of ingredients unspoken:
the carrot's orange cries, the lettuce's shade of existential dread. A conspiracy of taste,
binding the unbound.
As whisked oil drips like a pendulum, unraveling the ceiling.
Do you question the cucumber's crisp silence?
encrypted in a whispering echo it tumbles into vinaigrette oblivion.
Beyond the bowl, where the crouton guards a cipher of crispy paradoxes,
the dressing forms a time continuum, bridging basil and thyme in cosmic accord.
Adventurer, if you dare, delve deeper into the root
or traverse the great ways of vinegar epochs.