Welcome wanderer! The meadow’s gate stands slightly open... If you’re ready to dream, then welcome in.

Ah, “Who am I?”
A riddle as old as humankind,
asked in every age, time after time.
And now, are you waiting for a quick reply?
That’s not so easy, I can’t deny!

Let the story branch, let it twist and entwine;
let the winds scatter letters,
let words fall into song, in wandering rhyme.
Perhaps we’ll find the answer,
while chasing another riddle, in its own time.

In that ancient song, they call me by many names:
Some say “Meadow Wanderer,”
others, “Seeker of forgotten paths.”
Sometimes my name drifts as “Merry Idler,”
or they secretly murmur, “Dreamer who roams in realms of wonder.”

And I know this, it is plain:
I was not the first to bear this name,
Nor shall I be the final face;
Yet if remembered, I’ll hold with grace.
For with every step I take,
I awaken the old song of the paths once again.

🌙 My Humble Thought
If you ask, my humble thought is this:
I am neither fully lost, nor wholly found.
Part of me rests in this world,
part of me wanders in dream’s ground.

One hand stretches upward, brushing the sky,
the other sinks where the ancient roots lie.

At times I walk with no reason at all,
simply because my heart hears the call.
I hum a song to meadow and tree,
letting it drift on, quiet and free;
to the roaming clouds, the restless air,
to the mountains dreaming in silence there.

Maybe a trace of me will remain,
or fade like a footprint washed by rain.
I am not endless; this much I know.
Perhaps I am only a merry idle,
and for me, that is enough to show. 🌙

Forgotten Paths

And if you ask what I do, I’ll tell you so:
I walk the paths long forgotten by maps,
the trails wrapped deep in the mists of time.

Sometimes I find myself in the meadow’s shade,
sometimes I rest in the coolness of a spring.

I choose those ways;
where wildflowers guard their secret songs,
where shadows converse quietly with dreams.

With every step I take, an ancient song awakes;
beyond the veiled hills it rises,
the wind carries to my ears
the secrets kept for centuries.

Ancient olive trees,
in their roots carry the secrets of a thousand years.

Majestic oaks,
from their branches a trace endures.

In every hollow a secret sealed,
upon every leaf a quiet trace endures.
And each hidden corner shelters a tale;
once spoken, long forgotten.

And I listen, in silence,
to the stories of small things,
to the timeless wonders they keep;
some hidden in the morning mist,
some fading gently in the shadow of night.

Dawn’s Secret

At dawn’s first light, a new tale will rise;
the meadows awaken beneath pale skies.
The fairies’ secret, who danced through the night,
still lingers on blossoms in the morning light.

Only curious hearts, only watchful eyes
can trace what glimmers where morning lies.
Look closely now, before they fade away;
perhaps their hidden signs will shine today.

And with every sunrise, a new riddle is near;
as daylight brightens, it slips from here.
By silent hours it drifts, unseen,
a whisper of secrets that once had been.

Midday Light

While the sun idles high in the sky,
its light filters through the leaves;
shadows dance at the touch of the breeze.

I follow that small, fleeting spark of light;
in the crown of a wildflower,
or on the wing of a dragonfly
resting upon a leaf.

And with my camera, I try to hold time still;
without a breath,
without a blink,
in quietness.

Night Meadow

But at night, the meadows wear another face;
within the hush, come growls from some dark place.

And know, my friend: the sounds I hear at night
are no dream, no fable, but real in their might.
They are as real as the break of day,
never erased, never fading away. 😄

Fox & Hedgehog

Sometimes a fox glides through the meadow’s depths;
its tail flickers into view, then vanishes again;
catch it if you can, swift as a flame,
for it always hurries on its way.

And sometimes a thirsty hedgehog stirs from its sleep,
wanders slowly,
then disappears into the velvet night.
All traces vanish,
washed away with the fading light.

Moon & Silence

If the moon is shy that night,
I do not step into the valley.
I slip in silence along its side,
so the dark’s own harmony may abide.

For I know: the night belongs to them,
and I am nothing more than a shadow;
a traveler drifting softly, beneath the stars’ glow.

Stars & Dreams

Sometimes I sit upon a stone by the roadside,
photograph the stars, and drift into dreams beside.
Call it idling, if you will;
those quiet hours when I sit and think, still.

That is when I ask myself:
Who are we? Why are we here?
What awaits us, far away,
beyond the Milky Way?

I do not fear to ask, nor weary to learn;
not the answer, but courage;
that makes the light still burn.

Odd Treasures

And what do I gather?
Odd treasures, and the odder stories they tell.

Sometimes a thorny bush will speak to me,
sometimes a bird will sing in its own melody,
and sometimes the wind will carry dreams so gently.

Sometimes I find a stone, cold and blue,
They say on Karadağ’s peak a dragon once flew.

Its fire sank deep in the earth below,
its ashes became these stones we know.

Now it lies silent, pale, at rest,
not forgotten — only a guest.

And the rest? A secret, still untold,
another tale, in whispers old.

Secrets & Seeds

From every wildflower I meet on my way,
I gather a secret, if it chooses to say.
Some drift with the wind, some remain mine,
and softly they fall on my notebook’s line.

Sometimes I find an empty nest
hidden among the olive branches at rest;
sometimes it lies upon the ground,
dropped by the storm the night before.

My bag is large; but if something won’t fit,
I tuck it into my pockets, bit by bit:
a lavender-scented soap,
a little soil, a few twigs, an acorn from the forest floor.
And sometimes, quietly waiting and unseen,
an olive leaf from distant years hides in the seams.

From the sky drifts a feather,
black and white, speckled, gently curved.
I hear from afar its rhythm preserved.
Then I know:
a woodpecker is building a nest, you see,
in an old oak or eucalyptus, proud and free.

And sometimes, softly, an acorn will sprout,
appearing in silence, by a tree’s root, no doubt.
But why, you ask?
I always do, you see. :)
And the answer? Come closer…
listen, and hear it from me.
The playful squirrels, the clever jays,
they hide their treasures in secret ways.
A winter’s store, a careful plan,
yet some forgotten; as wild things can.

And so the ones forgotten fall,
each seed descends to earth’s deep hall.
Not meant for winter’s hush to stay,
but for the song of spring’s bright day.

The days grow shorter, the seasons turn,
the rains fall down, the soft clouds yearn:
“The time has come,” they gently say,
and in the stillness, hushed away,
a little oak awakes one day. 🌱

Shores & Compass

At times I set my sails to stories new,
the south wind drives the driftwood through.
Time, and salt, and waves untold;
the oldest craftsmen,
they’ve carved even stone.

A stone with a hollow, its circle worn thin,
as if a secret gate to realms within.
I lift it high, look through to the sea;
perhaps a fairy will appear to me,
perhaps a silver-haired mermaid will sing,
or for a fleeting moment I’ll see
the shadowed throne of a lost sea-king.

And what remains in the shoreline’s hands:
shells, and seaweed, and delicate bands.
Each one a riddle, a trace, a tale;
fragments the waves
have carried ashore to unveil.

I gather them all; leave nothing behind,
I carry the secrets, keep them in mind.

The sea’s soft song, like delicate lace,
is gently woven on notebook’s face,
and in the silence, it finds its place.

Satchel & Notebook

What’s in My Satchel?
Oh, what isn’t there, hidden in this secret den!
One thing’s for sure:
I carry no map;
that much I can say, to begin with. :)

Lavender, thyme, rosemary, bay:
Each a relic of another spell.
Lavender guards the dream,
thyme whispers courage,
rosemary unlocks memory’s gate,
and bay shines its light upon a poet’s quill.

A butterfly’s wing in a glass vial:
The half-forgotten song of the fair folk.
If one day the wing should stir,
perhaps it will finish a broken tale,
or awaken a dream still slumbering.

Oak’s ink & jay’s feathered quill:
From the memories of an ancient oak
there drips a single drop of ink,
waiting
at the tip of a quill
shaped from the feather of a jay.
When breathed upon by a poet,
history turns to legend,
and legend, in time, to myth.

Stone compass:
A sailor’s keepsake, though it points no north.
It shows but one thing: the desire of the heart.
And if you lift it in the moon’s soft glow,
you’ll never be lost; you’ll always find
new paths, new stories.

An acorn:
It hides within itself a forest untold,
perhaps forgotten, perhaps to unfold.
But as I keep it near to me,
it sings of what is yet to be.

What the seasons leave behind:
Days turn, months pass, seasons change;
each leaves behind a secret.
I gather them all, stringing them together
like pearls inside my satchel.

A notebook:
My notebook keeps, between its pages,
daisies dried through passing ages;
recipes half-remembered, half-forgot,
elixirs and riddles; a secret plot.

And some nights, through the stains of ink,
a shadow appears, as if from a dream;
perhaps it is me, perhaps a poet from ages past
with a feather in hand, through dreams it flies,
awakening songs where silence lies.

Star-dust scattered along the page’s edges,
old dreams linger, bound by silent pledges.
In the folds, where hidden symbols gleam,
lie secret gates to another dream,
passageways to realms unseen.

When the time arrives, I shall say,
what I have gathered along the way;
what I have known,
and the lessons I’ve grown.

But first, let me show you:
the leaves that sing,
the shy flower blooming among thorns,
the rain that breathes, the spring that sleeps in silence,
the sun that wanders from field to field,
the dreams the night wind weaves.

I will not forget; all these I will tell
only to those who wait,
to those who wish to listen,
and to seekers of small things;
as best as words allow.

With these silent treasures I have kept,
another riddle quietly unfolds;
in the meadows a new door opens,
and a new story begins…

And once again a tale starts to flow,
within the realm of dreams we know. 🌙

Did someone say “map”?
Alright, alright!
Let no paths be tangled,
let no steps go astray.

Here’s a map for you. :)

Or maybe… no, not a map.
Perhaps only a compass instead;
it doesn’t point north,
but gently teaches us to slow our pace.

Here, roads are drawn not with lines, but with tales.
Each corner hides a secret,
each page cradles a dream.

And you; if you wish; may wander into the Shop,
the Atelier, or even Second Breakfast.
To see all the doors and paths,
just follow the site map. 🌿

Or if you’d rather, simply linger here awhile.
For you know: some things never come in haste.
And some stories, like flowers that bloom at night,
are only heard when whispered softly
to the patient heart. 🌙🌿

And if one day you return to this place,
the door will wait half-open still;
for footsteps delayed,
for travelers who vanish into the night,
for other stories, and other wanderers.

The tale does not change,
but each new guest adds a page of their own.
The fire glows gently, warming the dark,
the kettle hums its last song
into the silence of night. 🌙

And perhaps you’ll find me there,
beneath the dim light of a lamp;
a cup of tea warm in my hand,
my notebook open before me,
quietly writing the book
I have always longed to read.

❓ Final Riddle
If you truly wish to know my name,
then listen closely:

In the forest’s heart, a hidden spring sings,
beneath the shadow of an ancient oak.
It whispers secrets only calm souls can hear,
and with them, it breathes my name.

Ah, so that was the simplest riddle of all!
Woven half in secrets, half in words. 🌙

If you’ve found the answer, write it down and say hello;
and perhaps you, too, will ask me a riddle in return… 🍃🙋‍♀️

Until we meet again.