The sigil of olivine stars, cast beneath twilight's sigh, an offering to the grainbound phantoms.
Within the folds of the sand's tongue, a palimpsest of lost dreams rests encoded.
Caravan tales mute against the gale, anointed with whispers of unseen tributaries.
The horizon speaks of eons fed to the maw of time, yet some words linger, tethered by gossamer threads.