Beyond the sylvan folds of time and tree, a feeling sits unexplored:
golden whispers from old machines sitting unused, the immutable hinge creaks “I harbor the memory of hands that once closely gripped my rusty joints”.
Their secrets laid bare only in the deepening dusk... Does it long for action? Or shun the daylight and its ember hues?
The crumbling stones underfoot, with edges dulled by the softest force, mumble tales of old and dignity, silent lament amidst vestiges of scrawl:
“Your footprints were once etched like promises”.
The birch, yearning for the untouched, eavesdrop on conversations not meant to fathom the fragile trunks bending in ease,
Her conundrum eternal: “Do I belong to earth, where whispers gather, or sky, where secrets ascend?”