Often, I find myself wandering through the echoes of autumn streets, where the golden leaves drunk on an Indian summer waltz around my feet.
Every step reminds me of paths once tread, accompanied by voices long silenced by the passage of time.
Like an old radio tuning into static, fragments of laughter and summer tales drift like the scent of sun-dried linen,
warm and bittersweet, mixing with the perfume of woodsmoke.
At times, there's a whisper of an old song, a symphony played somewhere beyond the edge of our tangible reality,
beckoning like forgotten dreams of a faraway land – marigolds blooms beneath the shadow of distant mountains.
Tell me, do you hear it too?
Or perhaps you see, through half-closed lids, the dance of fireflies at the edge of twilight,
punctuated only by the occasional frog's serenade.