Long ago the mountain took a mouthful of dusk and spent years turning it into crystal. The traveler follows that captured light through chambers where spears of ice rise like first, unfinished sentences.
Under jagged arches the blue grit begins to prickle across the dark rock — pinpoints behaving like a starfield folded underground, constellations that slide when the air moves.
The next corridor is a long clarification; edges soften, the air thins, and reflections braid themselves into a quiet astronomy ahead — veils like nebulae flowering down the path, galaxies assembling and loosening with each step, as if the cave were a lens rather than a tunnel.
When the last room opens, the stored glow lifts into a ceiling of frozen sparks, a firmament turned inward and held in ice. The traveler stands on the snow-shelf beneath it and lets the scene keep its silence. No revelation; only a correction of inner-pace.