Long ago when my grandmother's stories tangled with the smell of cinnamon in winter, a dance of fluttering moths became our compass in the stormy hallways— whispering directions hidden between the pages of worn-out maps.
Bubbles floated briefly, like forgotten laughter
In the meadow doused with day's final dew
The echo plays a different memory
Was it Berlin in shards or Marrakech lost in mist?
An orange cat idling on a sunny sidewalk
Counting days by the rings on its tail
Where are the pirate ships painted on
The walls of the English dormitory?
Remember the rhythm of shifting sands beneath old red shoes, similar to skipping heartbeats over nameless arpeggios, every footstep a mark of unknown destinations— Yet somehow, the compass always points to reunion or rebirth beyond the horizon.
Explore the fragmented reflections or navigate the invisible pathways.