Beneath the golden arches of 1896,
the steam hissed secrets, weaving time to dust.
Mary, the aviator, glided in loops
over cobblestone dreams sown in autumn,
untraced by the gaze of tethered stars.
In the pulsing embrace of 2221,
the sky bleeds violet thoughts.
A voice, mechanical yet warm,
echoes in crystal corridors—
the whisper of ancestors, forgotten yet alive.
Fragments of 1483 linger—
ink splatters on parchment leaves,
poetry of a time suspended,
horizons crossed by quill and muse,
sailing seas of silence and storms.