In the celestial drift, where the cosmos untwine, the echoes of oaths hang like dew on a forgotten dawn.
We wanderues, by gravity's embrace, distant from the sun's warmth. We are edgewalkers, guardians of the silent hymn.
The oath, unspoken, lies etched in the weave of stars; it pulses with the cadence of the universe's breath.
With each orbit, a promise, carried by stardust; with each aphelion, a witness to the night's serenade.
Let the path of exile guide us, through nebulas of forgotten dreams, beyond the eventide.
The whispering void calls; return, we must, to the root of the wanderer's heart.