What whispers do the leaves tell when twilight dances on horizons? The essence of mint—forged in the caldron of ancient gardens— speaks of journeys untold, paths minted anew.
Fragment 1: To mint or not to mint, the aphorism clashes with the emerald shade, laden with dew... Stems bearer of thoughts clinging to summer warmth. This is the question, not yet the answer.
Fragment 2: An orchestra of leaves conduct a symphony within the soul's amphitheater; the scent rises, seeking zephyr's intimacy, escaping form's confinement. Yet, confinement is mint's essence, its beauty lies in boundaries.
Eons in minutes, minutes in molecules—what is time but experience minted?
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