Raspberry bush

In the shadow of the old garden, where time dragged slowly, a single raspberry bush grew. Its branches, like lost threads of time, stretched towards the sky, losing themselves in the boundless blue. It seemed that in every leaf there was an echo of the past, like unspoken words frozen in eternity. This raspberry bush was like an ancient bard telling his story through the soft wind, the evening light exuding pale reflections of the morning. He talked about the times when children were having fun around him, stained with berry juice, and about the views that reflected the iridescence of the heavens. But now, in his forgotten beauty, he stood alone. His berries, once red as drops of blood, were now drying, leaving behind only emptiness and memories of years that had vanished into oblivion. Each leaf on this bush seemed like a small piece of paper on which stories were written. He witnessed joy and sorrow, love and loss. Its branches stretched out like arms to the past, as if it wanted to embrace its own memories. Sometimes, when the evening obscured the garden, this raspberry bush radiated a quiet light, like a memory candle illuminating the road into the night. Its sad branches reminded that time is not generous to promises and dreams. The raspberry bush was like an old friend, telling his stories only to the wind and the stars, while its leaves fell like tears to the ground. In each berry, which hung like a dewdrop, there was an unspeakable longing for the bygone times. So he continued his silent story, putting in every moment his sadness, his beauty, his loss. He was like a poem written by time, but read only by the gaze of those who stop and listen attentively to the wind whispering: "Do you remember how long ago it was?"