In the space where echoes lose their chase,
a gathering held in the heart of silence.
To the left of yesterday, past the whispering doors,
give three steps and pause;
count the calls of the unseen birds.
In the fields painted with twilight shadows,
the flowers converse in youthful vernaculars.
Seek the second bloom,
whose name you cannot speak.
Here, whispered secrets carve the air,
listen for the symphony of silence—
do not count stars, nor seek their reflections;
just meld with the moonless echoes.
The conclave murmur grows tender and leaves trails anew,
drifting like forgotten trains of thought upon half-remembered plains.
Pivot here, only to find,
a landscape sprouting echoes not heard,
the words lie dormant within and without.
Turn silently,
invitation whispered upon unknown breaths;
discover realms in liminal solitude.
An echo finds its place,
a returning spiral of forgotten tunes.