In the quiet heart of our bazaar,
lay treasures wrapped in whispers,
lullabies frozen in time,
serenades spun from gilded shadows.
Here, the ancient scrolls are kept,
their stories intertwining like vines
in the moonlit dance
of forgotten emperors.
Among jars of stardust and dreams,
a single drop of morning dew
holds the essence of ephemeral
autumnal sighs.
The merchant hums softly,
his tune a bridge
across the rivers of dawn.
In every corner of this hallowed ground,
the air is thick with melodies
and the promises of lands unknown,
where the horizon opens up
like an old friend’s embrace.