The psithurism of the forest sang a song to a memory that did not belong to me.

It lit up a part of my mind and created a sort of nostalgia for a time I never knew.

Sciamachy took place after the remembrance of something I did not remember.

The brontide of an oncoming storm added the bass in thunder to the song of the forest.

These memories not my own were ineffable beyond meaning.

I wonder if these memories were once mine from another time.