In the twilight of thought, where morning mist softens the edges of reality,
they twirl—the sylphs of old memories, casting shadows long and wispy.
Do you remember the whispers of promises made in sleep?
When the night cradles your dreams, gently with a lull of stars?
Here, in this ephemeral realm, the sylphs dance,
echoing traces of laughter that lingers like the scent of rain.
They are the custodians of yesteryear's forgotten vows,
guardians of moments that slipped through fingers like grains of time.