In the sepulchral silence of existence, where the cosmos' breath slows,
lies the dust—an ancient tapestry of forgotten worlds,
woven by the hands of oblivion. Theories abound,
scattered like whispers in a crypt,
yet none can hold the elegy of its origin.
The dust speaks in languages
etched in the marrow of stars—
a dialect of decay,
syllables formed from the ashes of dreams
that once painted the heavens with fervor.
Beneath the eaves of eternity,
grains of history settle,
each fleck a moment, a memory,
distilled from the ether's embrace,
awaiting the touch of a curious hand.