Translate the following text from English to Chinese, ensuring that you maintain the original narrative style, tone, and literary nuances. Pay close attention to cultural references and idiomatic expressions, and adapt them appropriately while preserving the author’s intent and voice.

Title: Echoes of the Soul

Section: Poetry

Poem 1: The Silent Symphony

In the stillness of the night, where shadows dance,
Whispers of ancient stars begin their trance.
The moon, a silver sentinel in the sky,
Watches over dreams as they drift and glide.

Leaves rustle like soft spoken secrets sprawled,
Each breath of wind, a silent call enthralled.
A lonely owl's hoot pierces the quiet veil,
Telling tales of forests, where lost spirits wail.

The river's lullaby, gentle and near,
Speaks of wonders unseen, tales unclear.
Under the blanket of darkness, hearts collide,
In this symphony of silence, worlds abide.

Poem 2: The Weaver of Dreams

She sits at her loom as the first light breaks,
Threads of gold and silver, each dream she takes.
Her nimble fingers dance in the dawn's embrace,
Weaving lives together in intricate grace.

From the laughter of children, she draws her thread,
And from whispered secrets left unsaid.
Silken strands of joy and sorrow blend,
In patterns only her heart can mend.

When night falls, her work never ceases,
Each dream she weaves with the softest pieces.
In the fabric of existence, she silently gleams,
The eternal keeper of our dreams.

Title: Landscape of Memories

Section: Prose Poem

Prose Poem: The Garden of Lost Time

In the heart of the old city, where cobblestones whisper tales of yesteryears, lies a hidden garden, untouched by the march of progress. Here, time moves with the grace of a bygone waltz, slow and deliberate. The air is heavy with the scent of lavender and thyme, mingling with the earthy aroma of damp soil and ancient stone.

Faded roses, guardians of forgotten love, bow their heads in eternal reverence. Their petals, velvety and worn, tell stories of lovers who once strolled through these paths, their laughter and whispers now merely echoes in the wind. Stone benches, moss-covered and wise, stand as silent witnesses to the passage of seasons, cradling human secrets within their cold embrace.

A gnarled oak tree, its branches twisted like the arthritic fingers of an elder, towers over the garden, its roots delving deep into the earth, seeking the pulse of history. Each ring in its trunk is a chapter, each leaf a word. Beneath its shade, the sunlight filters through in delicate mosaics, casting fleeting patterns on the ground—each one an ephemeral artwork in the gallery of the present moment.

The pond, still and reflective, shimmers with the light of a timeless afternoon. Lilies float upon its surface, delicate and serene, like fleeting thoughts in the human mind. Gazing into its depths, one might see reflections not only of the present but of the past—faces long forgotten, smiles that have faded, and eyes that once sparkled with unspoken promises.

In this garden, the chatter of the modern world fades away, replaced by the harmonious symphony of birdsong and the rustling of leaves. Here, one can sit and converse with ghosts—phantoms of memory that drift lazily in the golden autumn breeze. They speak not in words, but in sensations, in the warmth of the sun on one's skin, the light caress of the wind, and the distant murmur of a fountain, always pouring, always renewing.

This sacred space, untouched by the relentless hands of the clock, offers a sanctuary for the soul. It is a place where time itself seems to pause, take a breath, and remember the beauty that lies in simply being. In the garden of lost time, we find the fragments of ourselves—pieces that we leave behind like breadcrumbs, guiding us back to the essence of who we are.