Take me to the hills where the dawn begins its song, where the sky blushes gently, soft hues stretched long. I’ll stand in the quiet, where the air is fresh and clean, watching the light spill gold across a world evergreen. The morning hums with promise, tender and unsure, a fragile kind of beauty, fleeting but pure. Each ray of light a thread, weaving day’s fragile loom, but I know, like all things, it will unravel too soon. By noon, the fire burns hotter, the shadows sharp and deep, the earth hums louder now, no longer half-asleep. The hours stretch elastic, yet slip through trembling hands, time always fleeting, like tides upon the sands. But as the sun begins to lean, its fire softens slow, the hues grow muted, amber waves in twilight’s gentle glow. And here, beneath the dying light, I feel the pull of rest, a quiet ache, a solemn vow, the sunset’s final crest. Let me linger in this fleeting glow, where day meets night, where every end is whispered soft by fading light. Take me to the place where the light surrenders to the dark, a fleeting moment, etched forever in the heart.