Mira-1.10-dpo-27B

A spider spins the evening light,
a filament of silver bright.
The dust motes dance in amber rays,
while time itself forgets its ways.

A chipped blue cup sits on the sill,
with yesterday's forgotten spill.
Outside, a lone leaf spirals down,
a memory worn from autumn brown.

And I, with breath like morning mist,
observe the quiet alchemist:
the sun descending, soft and low,
transforming shadows into gold.

Perhaps tomorrow will be new,
with tasks to do and skies of blue.
But now is only this still frame—
a flickering candle's gentle flame—

and in its light I understand:
the beauty held within my hand
is not a treasure sought or won,
but simply being, here, undone.

A spider spins the evening light,
a filament of silver bright.
The dust motes dance in amber rays,
while time itself forgets its ways.

A chipped blue cup sits on the sill,
with yesterday's forgotten spill.
Outside, a lone leaf spirals down,
a memory worn from autumn brown.

And I, with breath like morning mist,
observe the quiet alchemist:
the sun descending, soft and low,
transforming shadows into gold.

Perhaps tomorrow will be new,
with tasks to do and skies of blue.
But now is only this still frame—
a flickering candle's gentle flame—

and in its light I understand:
the beauty held within my hand
is not a treasure sought or won,
but simply being, here, undone.

A spider spins the evening light,
a filament of silver bright.
The dust motes dance in amber rays,
while time itself forgets its ways.

A chipped blue cup sits on the sill,
with yesterday's forgotten spill.
Outside, a lone leaf spirals down,
a memory worn from autumn brown.

And I, with breath like morning mist,
observe the quiet alchemist:
the sun descending, soft and low,
transforming shadows into gold.

Perhaps tomorrow will be new,
with tasks to do and skies of blue.
But now is only this still frame—
a flickering candle's gentle flame—

and in its light I understand:
the beauty held within my hand
is not a treasure sought or won,
but simply being, here, undone.

A spider spins the evening light,
a filament of silver bright.
The dust motes dance in amber rays,
while time itself forgets its ways.

A chipped blue cup sits on the sill,
with yesterday's forgotten spill.
Outside, a lone leaf spirals down,
a memory worn from autumn brown.

And I, with breath like morning mist,
observe the quiet alchemist:
the sun descending, soft and low,
transforming shadows into gold.

Perhaps tomorrow will be new,
with tasks to do and skies of blue.
But now is only this still frame—
a flickering candle's gentle flame—

and in its light I understand:
the beauty held within my hand
is not a treasure sought or won,
but simply being, here, undone.

A spider spins the evening light,
a filament of silver bright.
The dust motes dance in amber rays,
while time itself forgets its ways.

A chipped blue cup sits on the sill,
with yesterday's forgotten spill.
Outside, a lone leaf spirals down,
a memory worn from autumn brown.

And I, with breath like morning mist,
observe the quiet alchemist:
the sun descending, soft and low,
transforming shadows into gold.

Perhaps tomorrow will be new,
with tasks to do and skies of blue.
But now is only this still frame—
a flickering candle's gentle flame—

and in its light I understand:
the beauty held within my hand
is not a treasure sought or won,
but simply being, here, undone.

A spider spins the evening light,
a filament of silver bright.
The dust motes dance in amber rays,
while time itself forgets its ways.

A chipped blue cup sits on the sill,
with yesterday's forgotten spill.
Outside, a lone leaf spirals down,
a memory worn from autumn brown.

And I, with breath like morning mist,
observe the quiet alchemist:
the sun descending, soft and low,
transforming shadows into gold.

Perhaps tomorrow will be new,
with tasks to do and skies of blue.
But now is only this still frame—
a flickering candle's gentle flame—

and in its light I understand:
the beauty held within my hand
is not a treasure sought or won,
but simply being, here, undone.

A spider spins the evening light,
a filament of silver bright.
The dust motes dance in amber rays,
while time itself forgets its ways.

A chipped blue cup sits on the sill,
with yesterday's forgotten spill.
Outside, a lone leaf spirals down,
a memory worn from autumn brown.

And I, with breath like morning mist,
observe the quiet alchemist:
the sun descending, soft and low,
transforming shadows into gold.

Perhaps tomorrow will be new,
with tasks to do and skies of blue.
But now is only this still frame—
a flickering candle's gentle flame—

and in its light I understand:
the beauty held within my hand
is not a treasure sought or won,
but simply being, here, undone.

A spider spins the evening light,
a filament of silver bright.
The dust motes dance in amber rays,
while time itself forgets its ways.

A chipped blue cup sits on the sill,
with yesterday's forgotten spill.
Outside, a lone leaf spirals down,
a memory worn from autumn brown.

And I, with breath like morning mist,
observe the quiet alchemist:
the sun descending, soft and low,
transforming shadows into gold.

Perhaps tomorrow will be new,
with tasks to do and skies of blue.
But now is only this still frame—
a flickering candle's gentle flame—

and in its light I understand:
the beauty held within my hand
is not a treasure sought or won,
but simply being, here, undone.

A spider spins the evening light,
a filament of silver bright.
The dust motes dance in amber rays,
while time itself forgets its ways.

A chipped blue cup sits on the sill,
with yesterday's forgotten spill.
Outside, a lone leaf spirals down,
a memory worn from autumn brown.

And I, with breath like morning mist,
observe the quiet alchemist:
the sun descending, soft and low,
transforming shadows into gold.

Perhaps tomorrow will be new,
with tasks to do and skies of blue.
But now is only this still frame—
a flickering candle's gentle flame—

and in its light I understand:
the beauty held within my hand
is not a treasure sought or won,
but simply being, here, undone.