薄云 lingering beneath the silver twi
The structures made of vap|or. Are reality mere.
Clouds: architects of skies, whispers trapped in liquid air.
Tricky echoes; bouncing off valley. Do seasons tremor? Furrow crossing time
between these ephemeral tongues, across again known yesterday?
>Hierarchy of mists cascading. Do not trust unspoken pools
//Broken sound tracing echos with a cry yet still a lull
perforated silence reverting to fill in the /*spacepace// */ of vast empty existent// sting against //a sky fleeced hope.