Motif

In quiet rooms where shadows softly play,
A motif drifts like scent of old parchment—
A whispered thread that weaves through night and day,
Binding the chorus of a heart’s lament.

It repeats in laughter, in the sigh of rain,
In cobblestones that echo footsteps past,
A pattern stitched within the mind’s domain,
Where memory and hope are tightly cast.

From ancient looms to modern city’s hum,
The motif returns, a constant, gentle thread—
A colour, a phrase, a rhythm that will come
To shape the tales we live, the words we’ve said.

So let us trace its subtle, steady line,
And find our own reflection in its design.