In the corridor of a forgotten childhood, where the echoes of laughter mingle with the shadows of absent friends, I ponder the sound of a distant train. It calls, yet I have never traveled its path.
Consider the time you met the ocean at dusk. The water whispered secrets, while the horizon swallowed the sun whole, mirroring an eclipse of understanding in your heart.
Once, I saw a garden where colors had stories to tell, yet none of the visitors could decipher their ancient tongues. Do the leaves remember, I wonder, or do they learn to forget?
Reflect on the hands that shape shadows, casting long silhouettes that dance to a rhythm only known to the dusk. What plays beneath the surface, unseen, unheard?
Echoes of Silent Symphonies