Tangled Threads

In the shadow of Yuriama's smile, the brooks sing ancient combat rhymes—a gentle serenade piercing the enveloping dusk. Time here is not a line but a waltz; the pendulum, an intruder. Can you hear the echoes dance, tethered betwixt all yesterdays and the perpetual arrival of unknown tomorrows?

The sages once uttered of foundlings—their fate entwined by speculative participles unseen—keening whispers adrift on the rambling breeze. Sleep, little soul, pleated within the sylvan bouquet of mystery. From end to end, cradle into knoll, possibility courts impossibility in a fragrant gambol of epochs.

The Grove of Murmurs
Amidst the Veils