In the soft cradle of morning light,
the dew spins tales upon the patina surface,
lucid echoes caught between ripple and ruin.
Shall we ponder the reflections unwritten?
Figures wane and wax beneath the soft blanket of fog,
as a chorus murmurs through the whisper of willow.
Stepping silently, the world quivers,
each footfall a stanza lost in the eddying stream,
haunting notes linger through verdant corridors.