She gazed at the cobwebs spun with dew drops
in the place where echoes met shadows,
a tapestry woven with silken breath.
The clock struck thrice, yet the feathers fell
in a cascade that defied earthly laws,
each feather a tear from the celestial crane.
Within the garden's embrace, a forgotten song
played softly, melody woven with forgotten names.
They linger on lips of mist,
like the absence of rain in a sunlit desert.
Once, in the brook's mirror, a lion danced,
pawing through the mist of morning stars,
whispering secrets too daring for tongues.