In the realm of crystalline dreams, where each shimmer speaks volumes of silent journeys, I descend—a tiny voyager caught in the embrace of downward grace. I am but a raindrop, clothed in the timeless attire of silken moisture, trailing the delicate veils of a tempest’s breath.
Swathed by millions of selves, each a reflection of a reflection, I find solace amid the ethereal mirrors that stretch endlessly. Here, within the hall, I exchange whispers with my countless fellows, drops from distant streams, and intimate fables of our shared pilgrimage.
Each mirror holds my image, yet none binds me. I see myself in the curve of the giant leaf, in the silent dialect of glass grasses, and in the echo of distant thunder, roaring softly like an ocean’s sigh.
Oft do I ponder: Is this hall a abode of solitude or reunion? Perhaps, the question too is a mirror, entwining itself in the fabric of mists where answers dwell quietly beneath the nothingness.
As I cascade with my kin, from a shelf of cloud to the waiting earth, I cherish the briefness of my journey as each drop must cherish its own—a resonant reminder of ballet with gravity.
Should you seek more reflections, wander through these ethereal paths: