Time invents a new language to describe the shadows of lost minutes, rustling like leaves in a silent clock. With syllables of pendulum and weary sounds it builds words that smell of rain and mixes ticking into a velvet alphabet. Each vowel is a scythe that cuts the silence, consonants that hold memory of vanished seconds, and grammar bends to the breath of the dial. Thus time speaks to those who listen, not to those who count, and echo of the new language remains in the palm of night, until light reassembles the minutes that return.