mozolev

In the hush of twilight’s glow, Whispers of the past do flow, Softly weaving tales untold, In the language of the old. A symphony of words at play, Dancing through the light of day, With each verse, a gentle dance, Guided by an elegant trance. Melodies of thought entwine, Crafting patterns so divine, Eloquent cadence fills the air, A serenade beyond compare.