a gentle breeze carries the scent of rouge, but it cant bring back the time thats been etched in my heart. a lone goose flies past the archway, shattering the sunset hanging from the eaves.
sighing on west street, it feels like a dream, the cobblestones sway under the tender moonlight. willow catkins drift past someones window, brushing against the lie of tears still wet on my face.
a yellowed letter, stained with the marks of time, the lakeside swing gently rocks the past. i hear the joyous music from the street, signaling the end, whose turn has crushed the lingering fragrance in the alley?
the hair you left behind guards the rouge, crows outside the village cry, scattering my thoughts. the storytellers gavel shatters a pair of mandarin ducks, a cup of cold tea cant express the depth of love.
sighing on west street, it feels like a dream, the cobblestones sway under the tender moonlight. willow catkins drift past someones window, brushing against the lie of tears still wet on my face.
the hair you left behind guards the rouge, crows outside the village cry, scattering my thoughts. the storytellers gavel shatters a pair of mandarin ducks, a cup of cold tea cant express the depth of love.
at the fortune-tellers stall, i sigh over the divination, a broken brush writes of the worlds coldness. footprints meander on the broken bridge, fresh snow buries whose wounds?
at the fortune-tellers stall, i sigh over the divination, a broken brush writes of the worlds coldness. footprints meander on the broken bridge, fresh snow buries whose wounds?