In the hush between evening twilight and the first stars' awakening, the wind carries whispers — echoing vestiges of past gold. Under the canopy of memory, where the golden grain rolls in the gentle touch of an unseen hand, once stood a love unspoken, unfathomable in its beauty.
There, beneath the elm tree's steadfast embrace, lovers shared trembling glances and written promises, sealed with the kind of innocence that time delicately erodes. Their shadows beckon still, dancing lightly upon the breezes that haunt these fields. They linger, like a lingering fragrance of wisteria on an April evening, lost yet ever-present.
Where are they now, wandering souls — your hands brushing the wind as you sail across dreams? Sail softly, sweet wanderer, for there remains a soft place in the heart of the world for your whispered secrets.