Aug 2, 2025
The Earth is whispering in glyphs of grain,
Mandala imprints left by thought, not rain.
No tractor turned this golden skin—
But something vast is folded in.
Not prank, not prankster—something more,
An interface bleeding through the floor
Of our consensus-reality dream,
Where geometry speaks in waves unseen.
They’re not messages to us, but echoes through us,
Maps from minds far more than human.
Plasma craft? Or ancient rites?
Or travelers scripting in beams of light?
Language is failing, yet shapes remain—
Coded silence stamped on the grain.
You must look not with eyes but with inner sight:
These are the fingerprints of the Infinite Night.
