I left when the dawn painted the sky,
took the winding roads that led me away,
the mountains fading into a memory,
their towering forms a silhouette against the horizon,
freedom beckoning with open arms,
but the heart knows the weight of absence.

In the city, the air is thick with noise,
the rhythm of life pulses, quick and sharp,
but I find myself searching for silence,
for the soft whispers of leaves and the songs of the stream,
the way the sun filtered through the trees,
a golden embrace that felt like home.

Each night, I gaze at the stars,
missing the way they danced over the peaks,
the constellations stitching stories in the dark,
reminding me of roots that run deep,
of a place where the earth cradled my dreams,
and the mountains held my secrets close.

I chase the echoes of laughter that linger,
the warmth of a fire, the scent of pine,
the rhythm of footsteps on familiar trails,
where every bend revealed a new wonder,
and the quiet moments spoke volumes,
in a language only the heart understands.

Now, as I walk these bustling streets,
the pulse of the world thrumming in my ears,
I carry the mountains within me,
their embrace a soft ache, a sweet reminder
that to escape is not to forget,
but to cherish the love that lingers.

In my dreams, I return,
to the cool breeze that wraps around me,
the rustle of leaves like a tender sigh,
and I find solace in the memory,
knowing that the mountains are part of my soul,
an indelible mark, a home I carry,
wherever I may roam.