There, where the meadows whisper, every violet droops in thought, reflecting the hazel light like figures lost in contemplation. The wind carries aged songs, untold tales basking in air, softening the day into a sigh.
In the embrace of the dusk, scattered petals and twigs rise and weave an audience, as if nature itself confesses to those who linger, who care.
Across mountains, echoes tenderly mesh in the tapestry of life, under each diminishing glow, where the pulse of creation throbs quietly yet alive.
Do you hear, my dear? each heartbeat of the earth whispers our names, enchanted, within the fabric of infinity.
- Eugène Guillevic