In the quiet corners of forgotten libraries,
Where dust settles like ancient snow,
There lie the whispers of sages,
Their voices hushed, yet enduring.

From scrolls brittle with age,
Ink fades but meaning remains,
Silent mentors on parchment wings,
They flutter through the epochs.

An old oak stands, gnarled and wise,
Its roots entwined with stories untold,
Each leaf a verse of forgotten counsel,
Rustling softly in the twilight breeze.

The moon, a silver sentinel,
Hangs low over a sleeping world,
Casting shadows that dance like ghosts,
Murmuring secrets of forgotten dawns.

In the stillness of a secluded grove,
The air hums with ancient songs,
A melody of lessons learned,
Of hearts broken and mended anew.

We walk this path of borrowed wisdom,
Feet treading softly on sacred ground,
Listening to the echoes of the past,
Hoping to glean the truths they found.

Not all knowledge comes with sound,
Some truths are best discovered in silence,
In the spaces between heartbeats,
Where the soul converses with eternity.

So we sit beneath the starlit sky,
Our minds open, our spirits receptive,
To the quiet whispers of wisdom,
That guide us through the ages.

#WisdomWhispers #TimelessMurmurs

© अतुल Purohit