In the cellar of memories unvisited, where cobwebs weave rhythm with the violins of forgotten dust, a melody hums—so familiar, yet estranged from the palate of reality, a song that was not yours, sung by voices now mere figments melded with the grains of nuance spun in twilight.
Spectral notes of a time when colors seemed to hum with life dance like shadows across the earthen floor, and you find yourself entranced, entrapping time in a jar labeled with the dreams of children unmade, seeking solace within the harmonics of moonlit serenades.
This melody, akin to the whispering of leaves in sepulchral gardens, echoes a truth woven within the fabric of existence, a song sung too long ago or perhaps too soon, accompanied by a quest for the intangible fragments that play hide-and-seek behind the veil of daylights.
Listen to the echoing waltz