What cries without mouths, sings without tongues, and flutters through shadows untold?
Keep your ear to the autumn leaves—there, the answer dwells, elusive as mist.
Could time be a river, dancing over pebbles of memories, or a mere illusion waning with the light?
The whispered winds ask, but speak not to those who demand alms of knowledge.
Behind every sigh of the foliage lies a question unanswered—the song of truth struck mute.
Listen well, and the riddles shall unravel, knot by ethereal knot.