Photo by Krišjānis Kazaks on Unsplash
Whispers drift through unseen skies,
A language born where silence lies.
Not of the past, nor present near,
But voices shaping what we hear.
Shadows bend to silver flame,
Time itself forgets its name.
Each step forward, soft and true,
An echo sings of something new.
Dreams unbuilt, yet taking flight,
Carved from dawn, and touched by night.
Hope, like glass, both sharp and pure,
Carries echoes we endure.
And when tomorrow calls our name,
Through shifting stars, through ash and flame,
The future answers, vast and wide—
An echo walking by our side.
About the Creator
Khan584
If a story is written and no one reads it, does it ever get told

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