Golden leaves, scores written by the hand of unforgiving time
Golden leaves, scores written by the hand of unforgiving time,
Fall in the slow rhythm of years slipping away like sand in an hourglass.
We are violins tuned to the melancholic tone of the eternal autumn,
Playing the ephemeral melody of life on the fragile strings of existence.
The mirror of the lake reflects the leaden sky of memory,
Ripples of water intersect with the wrinkles of time on the face of aged nature.
Memories dance in swirling winds like ghosts of the past,
Like dried leaves from the bygone summers of our lost youth.
The scent of ripe apples and burning wood drifts in the air of nostalgia,
The last symphony of nature before the long sleep of life's winter.
Every note is more precious than the gold of our dreams of yore,
In the final concert of seasons that relentlessly succeed toward infinity.
Trees, people deeply rooted in the fertile soil of the past,
Some still green with hope, others bare of illusions, all whispering untold stories.
We are wanderers lost in the park of collective and personal memory,
Gathering yellowed leaves from the album of life that thins with each passing day.
Spring once deceived us with sweet dreams of eternal youth,
Summer intoxicated us with the bright mirage of a promised eternity.
But autumn, sincere in its golden and rusty melancholy,
Teaches us, with gentleness and firmness, the beautiful and cruel lesson of passing.
We are but fleeting notes on the cosmic staff of existence,
Meant to resonate for a moment and then fall silent in the great silence.
But in this fleeting and fragile melody of our limited existence,
We find the heartbreaking beauty of the moment that shines before it fades.
Each autumn is an invaluable gift in the crown of the dwindling years,
An elegant invitation to the last dance with life that still pulses within us.
We gather precious moments like golden fruits from an enchanted garden,
From the orchard of time that shrinks but grows sweeter and more intense.
We breathe deeply the cool, fresh air of autumn that embraces us,
Feeling how we become one with nature in its eternal cycle of birth and death.
We vow in the violet silence of dusk to live each autumn with intensity,
As if it were our last symphony in the grand orchestra of the universe.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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