The pond murmurs softly, a lullaby for thoughts long submerged beneath still waters. In its glassy face, echoes of yesteryears dance silently.

Here lie echoes—fossilized whispers once vibrant and alive, now relics in shimmering waters:

"Do you remember the violets, amongst the shadows of willow? They spoke in colors that words fail to capture."

Fragmented, buried whispers of an untold story. Skeletons of meaning scattered, set adrift by time's merciless flow. Stones in the brook, clinging to histories as they erode.

Where do the forgotten conversations go when the wind holds its breath? Perhaps they dissolve into streams of consciousness or rest beneath the soil, dreaming of waltzes with the stars.

The pond is all ears, or perhaps a mirror unto itself, reflecting not what is, but what was—a timekeeper of whispers and wishes.