In the hush of twilight, a note lingers—
the breeze whispers, "You are here, yet not."
Stars hum their ancient tune,
an ode woven from silken shadows
and forgotten dreams.
A lone bird sings on the cusp of nowhere,
where time folds in on itself,
a paradox of presence.
Leaves dance to the rhythm of unshed tears,
echoing the whispers of past sighs,
a melody fanfare to the unseen.
The horizon bends, cradling this moment
in a tender embrace of colors unseen,
a fleeting memory of a song once sung.