As the sun dips below the horizon, shadows elongate like forgotten tales.
The docks hold a mosaic of whispers etched in saltwater and time.
"Listen to the tide," they say, "it carries secrets of old mariners."
Ships creak under the weight of stories locked in their hulls,
bound by chains of rust and whispers of forgotten wakes.
The world breathes deeply here, where land kisses the restless sea.
Murmurs translate the language of fishmongers and sailors,
decrypting dreams into the tang of the brine.
"Our roads are rivers," they breathe, "flowing through the veins of the earth."
The dock workers are the silent sentinels of twilight,
their shadows merging with the whispers of time,
as the boats rock gently, cradling cosmic lullabies.