Question

make this easy word

I walked a road that flowed like a slow gray river,
and the wind whispered our names into the night.
It smelled of wet leaves and warm bread from the tavern,
and the lanterns hummed, thin yellow light.

She said she went to rest, a soft way to say she was gone,
and the moon leaned in like an old friend to a tired heart.
She told Icarus stories, wings and bright fools of sun and smoke,
and I said, how lucky we are, with a hole where love should start.

We called that loss a new quiet, a kind euphemism,
while the trees held a thousand years of secrets in their bone.
Quiet thunder rolled beneath our feet, a sweet sorrow of sound,
and grave matters lay by the road, the joke and weight of stone.

At times the night was a blanket, the map itself a promise,
the empty pocket full of paper doors we could not part.
The river sang like a bell, soft loud and bright and cold,
and this walk became a small story that stands for the whole heart.

I was lost and found at once, a strange clear dark paradox,
we moved by staying still, we kept and gave away what we bought.
The path is an old book, every footstep a simple page,
an allegory of leaving and coming home, where no light is for naught.

Answer 1

Here it is in simpler words:

I walked down a road that moved like a slow gray river,
and the wind softly called our names into the night.
It smelled like wet leaves and warm bread from the tavern,
and the lanterns gave a thin yellow light.

She said she was going to rest, a gentle way to say she was gone,
and the moon leaned in like an old friend to a tired heart.
She told stories of Icarus—people who flew too close to the sun,
and I said how lucky we are, even with a hole where love should be.

We called that loss a "new quiet," a kinder name,
while the trees seemed to hold a thousand years of secrets in their trunks.
Soft thunder rolled under our feet, a sad, sweet sound,
and serious things lay by the road, heavy like stone and strange like a joke.

Sometimes the night felt like a blanket, and the map felt like a promise,
our empty pockets held papers like doors we could not open.
The river sang like a bell—soft, loud, bright, and cold,
and this walk became a small story that stood for the whole heart.

I was lost and found at the same time, a strange, dark contradiction,
we moved while staying still, we kept things and gave away what we had bought.
The path is like an old book, every step a simple page,
a story of leaving and coming home, where no light is wasted.