Un peu de mélancolie du matin
By chance, I let Rumours spin, Fleetwood Mac cradling the room like a warm tide.
In that soft cascade of sound, I felt strangely at home.
But then, it struck me: perhaps I am becoming what the young call “out of time,” a relic dressed in echoes of another golden hour.
Still, if my heart beats in vintage rhythms,
if my soul drapes itself in yesterday’s silhouettes,
who dares to call it decay?
Isn’t every era just a different bloom of beauty?
