Plummet into existence, droplets born from vaporous wombs; my origin an echo of a forgotten whisper. I cling to atmosphere, belated witness to unseen migratory paths.
Crystal clear, yet transparency masks complexity, intertwined—who am I beyond descent? The winds’ murmur tells stories of journeys untold and hidden.
Parasitic, atop verdant musings—I etch stories onto leaves that won't share my grief or joy. Am I to perpetuate this cycle anew or dissolve quietly, lost in beckoning oblivion?
Flowing gently, crevices cradle my soul; the earth's veins pulsate with forgotten heartbeats. I observe—soil stitches stories between its folds.
Did I witness the rise of cerulean mountains, or perhaps a desert's lament? Intertwined in omnipresence, the fable nourished by memory—or am I memory itself?
Is solitude noble, amongst the collective atomic tribe of moments composed? Warmth embraces, coldness shuns, yet unity persists—where you throng, I already belong.
Perhaps in hidden fables lies the purpose of endless dance—soaked soil celebrating unseen artistry, truth poured from the sun's eternal dusk.