The sun spills gold in fragile streams,
a fleeting touch, a sigh between;
where time unravels, slow and thin,
like an ancient spell whispered on the wind.

The dawn awakes with silver hands,
to trace lost love upon the land.
A mist, a ghost, a breath, a plea;
a world once whole, now memory.

The rivers hum in voices old,
secrets spun in liquid gold.
Their song still lingers, soft and low,
a tale of things we’ll never know.

The trees, they reach, they ache, they yearn,
for fires gone cold, for stars that burn.
Their roots entwine the bones of time,
each ring a loss, each leaf a rhyme.

The flowers bloom, then fade, then fall,
as if they never lived at all.
Yet in their scent, a love remains;
a whispered name, a fleeting flame.

The mountains stand, but in their stone,
are echoes carved of those long gone.
Their peaks still call to those below,
a song of longing, laced with woe.

The ocean sings in sorrowed waves,
it cradles what it could not save.
Each crest, a prayer; each fall, a cry;
a heart too vast to say goodbye.

And when the dusk drapes earth in blue,
the stars blink out, as lost things do.
For magic lingers, wild and thin,
like an ancient spell whispered on the wind.