arched its neck like a proud horse, carrying the sounds of valleys and secrets: “I am the wind in the palm groves, the call of the traveler at dawn.”
— deep as a well, round as an eye — spoke nothing, but all letters felt its gaze. “I see what you cannot write,” it said. “I am the silence that carries your sound.” msabqat alhrwf
rolled its tongue like thunder: “I am the journey, the rustle of sand, the heart’s first beat.” arched its neck like a proud horse, carrying
And so the letters joined hands, formed a word: — to write . And the world began again. the rustle of sand