الصوت المشترك

​The moon moves slowly over the mossy stones. Listen to the mist as it settles upon the silent lake. There is no rush, no sound, only the soft sigh of the wind through the willow leaves. ​Low, silver light leans against the hills. Each breath is like a wave, washing over the smooth sand, pulling away the noise of the day. Sleep is a shallow stream, shimmering in the starlight. Let the shadows soften. Let the stillness settle deep within the marrow.