Around we spin - the marooned heart tethered in rapturous yearn.
Should you dare boil destiny's teapot upon the granite paths of dawn's caress, wander northward—past three lavender moons, where midnight jasmine guides the tempo of one forgotten serenade.
While skies remain ajar beneath an orchard balcony, align every measured sip of Midsummer rose tea to the accidental droplets of dew that trick olla waitha leaves.
Believe, though circumstances may claim otherwise, that upon returning 'round to where you began, resides the aching promise of whatever's missed.