In the ashen twilight, umbrellas bloom in paradoxical gardens,
spanning shades of midnight blue and murmur whispers.
Shadows chase the skineken canopy,
distant lives flickering lanterns lost in the fog.
What rhythm propels them? Paper wings unwrapping destiny,
orchestrated by a symphony unknown.
The wind howls secrets,
while invisible cherubs defy the solemn horizon.
You wade through puddles of iridescent ink,
where echoes dissolve in a centrifuge of dreams.
A memory, possibly yours, steals silent music in spirals.
Track the ephemeral, you muse,
and always the umbrellas betray the chase
colliding with stars amidst the sodden night.