Drowning Daffodils

In the silent corridors of forgotten gardens, deep-rooted dreams sway with memory. Stretched slowly, drenched in dew yet untouched by night’s shadow, daffodils drown, cradling the echoes of yesterday’s laughter. Whispers float through damp soil—the tales of fleeting moments replayed, swirling in the timeless embrace of winds. Beyond the petals, the sky weeps sparkling droplets that dress their golden crowns in shimmering attire. A parade of thoughts travels through the droplets, each bearing secrets anonymized by time. Breaths of ages linger, brewing in the dark furrows, turning in the greenest of spirals—a cipher written in chlorophyll. Leaves curl upwards as if to unveil the sun’s hidden smile, yet once the warmth envelopes, they nestle against dew annotations. A voice hums—an encrypted code emanating among roots deeper than memory: "When the north wind howls, will the tapestry unravel or thread anew?"