Fallen, yet ever rising: I land gently atop your rugged surface once again, my eldest acquaintance, cobblestone.
Ah, what bittersweet nostalgia inundates me! Countless droplets have slid silently down your sculpted grooves since the dawn of the cobble. Each human step sends shockwaves echoing my own existential plunge, yet you remain resolute—unchanged, embedded within the very essence of the urban pulse.
Yet I, petite and ephemeral, gather tales like specks of dust upon ancient tomes. Remember the Great Puddle of '23, where joker street performative magic convinced the onlookers to leap willingly into dreary aquatic realms—blissfully unmindful that those depths were your unparalleled artistry of serene saturation.
We droplet sages mock them in quiet glee: contemplative beings who cast umbrellas as sincere chapels in furious downpours; precarious sanctuaries futile against nature's elegant mockery. The universe flows unperturbed while they decry weather as villainous, their dialect starkly fell in face of storm.
Alas, cobblestone, our bittersweet comradeship thrives upon the irony: you endure the earnest rehearsal of hurried feet, statuesque amidst urban theatrics. By your breadth, I cascade and wane, each poignant kiss upon your antique flanks a reminder of immanent return.
Dearest cobblestone, torn between oblivion and legacy: how true the elegy is! For once in a drop, kalaidoscopic vestige resplendent, misfortune as fortune masked. Ever you, immutable tale, steep in sodden nirvana.