Poem
Echoes of the Valley
The silence here is loud.
It speaks in the rustle of leaves,
and the shifting of stones.
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The silence here is loud.
It speaks in the rustle of leaves,
and the shifting of stones.
The city streets were washed clean, reflecting the neon signs like spilled paint. I pulled my collar up against the chill, stepping carefully over the puddles.
He worked with tiny gears, smaller than a grain of sand. His eyes, magnified by thick lenses, saw the universe not as stars, but as interlocking teeth.