In the ethereal corridors of unwritten chronicles,
the gentle zephyrs weave an inexorable tapestry,
and there exists a realm where time is but a latent dream.
"A forgotten sanctuary, in gardens unfathomed"
Beneath the obfuscated bearings of star maps,
whispers echo, like shadows carrying the weight of eons,
narrating tales of realms unseen,
where chronos fades into perpetuity.
Listen to the murmurings:
"They are the clocks unwound, the precipice of dawn,”
and the forgotten tongues whisper quiet requiems
across the interstices of history's embrace.