Vicious red petals brushed in the late breeze, landing on flowing water, reflecting the mid autumn moon. Strings vibrating from every stroke of the pipa, following shifting wind whispers. Countless crowds pass by, leaving only the ones who follow the path of falling leaves.
The soft lantern illuminates the sighing sky, but captured by still and silent water. More footsteps arrive, more lights drowning in ignited waters. The wavy cascade of lights dance and flow, merging into goldfishes, springing to life. But melted by the returning rain, though lines blurred, freed from definition, yet unalive.
Left by the selfish rain are nothing but falling leaves and whaling dreams. Abandoned by trees, yet chosen by comforting waters. The pipa rested in the night, waiting yet washed away by time. Caged in a timeless dream, lit by lantern lights.
Dec 12, 2025
Dec 12, 2025 at 8:16 PM UTC
A soft-spoken serenade unweaves in a closed wishful box, clicking footsteps soon follows, hinting at the restless ivys. Roses and wisteria blur into undefined fleids, kissed by the arriving butterflies. Wind chimes swiftly get into motion as a shy breeze slip by and hides in the awakening oak.
Two swans step into the morning pond, now with the soft sun washing a pearly glow upon its glory. Promising eternal love to ignite each other's eyes, nourishing empathetic feathers in the elysian daylight.
Now, with fading melody, the butterflies may fly, resonating with the flowing flowers, illuminated the blissful sky one last time. Endless wings flutter into untamed dawn light. May they return, before the next daylight.
Dec 9, 2025
Dec 9, 2025 at 6:50 AM UTC
Since the last strings of remaining autumn began to fade, a silver veil catching countless threads of the blissful moonlight still glistened, but ghosted by the northern lights that mimics the unwinding loneliness.
Perhaps the weaver still lets the free falling snow dance in the unseen winter mist, before they collapse into the unpolished silk. But the weaver still waited, waited for someone's gaze, prayers unseen, yet wishes unearned.
The mourning mountain rumbles and sleeps, letting itself be covered by the wishful veil, still desires for a pure sleep. And the weaver? Sighed and tried, embracing the first flickers of a remorseful sunlight, still bringing the lust for company till it's the next time to weave.
Dec 8, 2025
Dec 8, 2025 at 7:13 AM UTC
A gust of wind powered by definition rushes through the unguided trees and catches the dancing golden leaves. Leaves swiftly glide alongside the sheer will of the west winds, winds that rhyme with rhythm and winds that carry an invention written of gold.
The wind continues its journey, rippling along the silk woven river. The river glistened in the ethereal dusk, flattened and smooth as a soft melody, gently catching the falling leaves in a lullaby veiled in apathy. Has it too fallen victim to the wishful last dews of the fresh lily bells by the shore? They too, fall asleep with a fresh coat of wishful blue.
The winds stay silent, caught by the old spin weaver as the wood becomes a new. The threads where spun, bounded with fate, as it still reflected the last moonlight gloom. It still weeps alongside the orchids, just for a sight of the next spring
All together, the leaves finally fall, just wrapped in a golden sorrow, sorrow that fell into an everlasting dream. Alongside the river, things began to slow, for the roses that will bloom, just for the next show.
Dec 5, 2025
Dec 5, 2025 at 6:45 AM UTC