Give yourself to the silent wind,
wherein voices carve the stars from oblivion.
Feathered by dusk,
sewn 'round in unseen stitches,
they endure—merely a breath apart.
When twilight's cry silvers the firmament,
listen close to the wavering taste of time;
beyond syllable and sleep, softly writđena himalayan hue
is the door waiting—etched deep in serene tumult.
Step under pale echoes, step into the
symphony of threads unheard. Shh, a whisper:
a galaxy you never quite imagined,
an infinite palette brushed by curl and pulse.