L Y N I A

Nights and days tell stories behind the vines.

Each story unravels the knot of the beginning in the star gates.

The voices would pause for the light of the still-hesitating morning.

The whisper of the moon memorizes the darkness of the night when I remain silent with you.

A moment appears in a thousand moments, and silence shines.

I would feel the candle flame deeper.

The grains of sand were warm on the time’s shore.

I have fond memories of the ocean and the sound of the winds.

Mosaics, staves, illusions, and reality are the realities that make it real—a mirrored sky, a sea scent that pauses every moment

The color of the night with you was radiant blue, and it was a quiet purple in the morning.

Fingertips felt like pure shining water, and your voice was a whisper of love.

Memories are like fire, the endless well that shows to infinity.

When eternity is on the verge of moments, there is invisibility in my heart.

While eternity is on the verge of moments, invisibility exists in the heart as much as the memories counted by time.

Memories are as real as the place where they exist.

It is neither carried nor stored nor remembered.

Presence, with love.

Memory with the mind.