I hold the world's greatest tales, yet have no voice, My depths conceal treasures, a boundless, watery choice.

I hold the stars yet weigh no thing, no walls, no floor, no edge, no ring. I stretch beyond what minds can trace, a silent, endless, darkened place. No air to breathe, no sound to hear, yet all you know is resting here. I cradle worlds that drift and race, a boundless void none can embrace

People often traveled the Silk Road in these, just like the Saharan salts, or a group of camels, Gypsies, or another traveling group. Nowadays, we think of semis, all paired up in groups on the road, especially when country is on the radio.

We span a deep chasm without taking a step, carrying the heavy weight of a traveler's path. Yet we also the breath between a verse and a chorus, a fleeting transition born of pure sound. What could we be?

I am a kingdom where sunlight is sifted, where giants drink clouds and the ground never dries. My breath is warm, my voice is a chorus, and life hides in layers beneath emerald skies.