through early morning autumn mists, the River calls me down, down to banks of bullrushes and ghostly wisps of memories. here time holds its breath, waiting for the sun to chase the ghosts away, and the trees whisper their secrets.
through early morning autumn mists, the River calls me down, down to banks of bullrushes and ghostly wisps of memories. here time holds its breath, waiting for the sun to chase the ghosts away, and the trees whisper their secrets.
