There was once an age shaped by whispers—
an age carried on the backs of storms
and sealed by the breath of gods.

But time forgets,
and so do those who once lifted their voices skyward.
Gratitude faded into silence.
Ritual turned to shadow.

Now only echoes walk the sacred halls.
No curses were spoken—only a stillness,
soft as ash,
falling over the bones of a forgotten world.

Dharma gives voice to this silence.
Not to awaken the gods—
but to remember that they were once heard.