Whispers of the Woven Horizon

Under skies where the sun’s light bends,
A story forms, yet never ends.
Figures stride through gleaming haze,
Half-forged by stars, half-born of days.

Their limbs sing softly, metal-toned,
A resonance they’ve come to own.
In every step, a rhythm flows,
A mystery only silence knows.

Forests hum with vibrant threads,
Roots of chrome where green once spread.
Rivers whisper in liquid light,
Tracing paths through endless night.

Their eyes hold depths too vast to chart,
A mirrored world, a ghost of heart.
Hands create with tireless care,
Yet something lingers, faint and rare.

What pact was struck, what price was paid,
For this vast bloom of life remade?
Is it the end, or the first refrain
Of something pure, or something vain?

The mountains pulse, the air runs deep,
With voices soft that never sleep.
Through glimmered fields, a question breathes:
What dreams are born, and what deceives?

No chains to bind, no walls to fall,
Yet something ancient touches all.
Not man, not machine, but a thread between—
A dawn of gold, a shadowed sheen.