Have I not met you in dreams, where the edges glimmer and time frays like the hem of a forgotten robe? The pond whispers, a cruel mimic clad in liquid poetry, daring me to peer again into the twilit depths. Once again, the sun bids farewell in violets; the scene feels like memories of memories, pulling me through shadowed corridors lined with nameless faces, speaking a language of absence. Echoes hum—silent song sung aloud, weaving paths through the woven dawn. Did I not once stand here, encased in the aching glow of a thousand fleeting shadows? Perhaps it was another springlike autumn, where the sky blossomed with ghosts of vapor, brushing against a mirror not yet broken. Here, the world spins, but the mirror remains still, a fragile pearl waiting for touch, legend whispers again—a refrain of reflection. And the mirror speaks