I beg you, deceive me still,
Let me believe you love me too.
At the year's end, the city streets seemed frozen in the cold,
Few souls wandered the hesitant paths where flowers barely bloomed.
He sat adrift on the pine-covered hill.
His soul—lost to the wind.
Strumming the strings.
She leaned against him, singing into the mist-laden sky.
An old man, smoking at the foot of the hill,
Listened to melodies of longing,
To worldly sorrows that touched the heart.
A stirring ache—
For love is a dreamy haze,
And passion, an intoxicating daze.
Playing the strings, she sang.
Their emotions floated untethered.
Two young souls,
Nurturing each other in the ruins of a mountain town.
He loved sitting there with her,
Where remnants of war lay hidden beneath endless pine forests.
She was eighteen,
Her brows fine as wisps of ink,
Lips ripe as crimson plums,
A youthful bloom on the hills of poetry.
Her gaze, unguarded in the winter dusk,
Her path home, paved with wandering notes.
Dreamily, she spoke—
She longed to be a drifting cloud,
To chase the horizon’s edge,
To seek unseen shores,
To unravel the mysteries of life.
"Do you ever think that way?" she asked.
"About this weightless existence?"
Vacant-eyed, he answered—
"Does it matter?
I do not dwell at the world’s edge.
I only know this place.
I love it because you are here—
Singing beside me,
In the heart of these mountains.
Is that not weightless enough?"
At nineteen,
His soul was just mature enough to feel
That life was a shattered mosaic—
A father lost,
A mother who left,
A love neither past nor future could complete,
Torn between duty and passion.
She had vanished.
Lost to the endless nights of his memory,
Through veils of mist and echoes of song—
A voice as clear as a mountain stream.
With the cliffs behind,
The pine hills before,
He listened to her voice
And slumbered in a lifetime of poetry.
Grew up.
Dared not dream.
Hid his love beneath the pines.
One sunny afternoon,
A young girl passed by,
Drawn by the music,
And sat beneath the hill to sing.
Unfinished.
A tale of lovers,
A legend of two graves in the hills,
A dream of butterflies chasing a distant heaven.
Carved into wood: First love is eternal love.
Etched into his heart: Endless longing.
One evening, church bells rang,
And a heart trembled.
A young man,
Carving love into memory.
A song for winter’s end.
Strumming the strings.
She sat beside him, singing into the mist-laden sky.
The old man, still smoking at the foot of the hill,
Still listening to melodies of longing.
Interrupted.
Worldly sorrows touched the heart.
A sin—
For love is foolish,
And passion remakes the soul.
Playing the strings, she sang.
Their emotions drifted unmoored.
She was twenty-eight,
Brows bold with dark strokes,
Lips painted deep red,
Her once-blossoming form now weightless,
Eyes adrift in the cold evening air,
Her path home, paved with lingering notes.
Dazed, she spoke—
Clouds will forever chase the horizon,
Reaching unseen shores,
Discovering unknown truths,
Wondering endlessly about life.
"Do you ever think that way?" she asked.
Bewildered, he answered—
"Does it matter?
I am not a drifting cloud.
I will not chase the horizon,
Nor seek shores unknown.
I only sit here,
Loving this place because you are here—
Singing beside me,
In the heart of these mountains.
Is that not boundless enough?"
She shook her head.
Sighed.
Let it go.
She thought—he does not understand.
Since the day she left,
Since the day the mountain town’s mist cleared,
She had chased the city’s bright lights
To realize a dream
Born from a love she lost.
He sat on the pine-covered hill,
Playing her a final song.
Farewell.
Love left behind,
Dreams unshared,
Hearts misaligned.
Love, abandoned.
He sat on the pine-covered hill,
Playing her a final song.
Goodbye.
Old affections,
Faded yet untouched,
Returned now to a quiet love beneath the pines.
He tightened the strings,
Let the old melody rise.
Her voice was gone—
Lost in the wind.
Only the melody remained,
With lingering pauses and fading notes.
Passersby applauded.
Praised the tune.
But he sat, entranced,
Strumming, again and again—
Were the strings not tight enough?
Was it why the song faltered?
Wandering.
I beg you, deceive me still,
But do not leave me.
Strumming the strings.
She leaned against him, singing into the mist-laden sky.
The old man no longer smoked at the foot of the hill,
No longer listened to melodies of longing.
Gone.
Worldly sorrows touched the soul.
Salvation.
For love is madness,
And passion turns bitter in time.
Playing the strings, she sang.
Their emotions sank into silence.
She was thirty-two,
Her brows etched in ink,
Lips shaded with muted tones,
Her once-blossoming form now fading,
Eyes hollow in the cold twilight,
Her path home, paved with somber notes.
Placing a hand on her belly, she spoke—
"If there is reincarnation,
If I could be born anew,
I would be a drifting cloud,
Chasing the horizon,
Seeking unseen shores,
Doing the unknowable,
So I would never have to think of life again.
Condemned.
This world is a prison.
Do you not feel the same?"
He turned,
Held her close,
Placed his hand upon hers,
And whispered—
"Does it matter?
I do not dwell at the world’s edge.
I will remain here,
Because I understand this place.
I love it—
Because you are here,
Singing beside me,
In the heart of these mountains.
No matter if this world is heaven or hell.
