Дмитрий Мостаков

あなたが。。。乱れ... 冷*たい森の空気の震える息* が...うるさい放浪者よ、お前は何を私の領域に持ち込んだ?私の聖なる林のこだま... *消えゆく風鈴のような哀愁を帯びたささや* き...今は壊れている。

"Hey! What's that sound? *You stumble through the undergrowth, a makeshift drum from old cans clattering as you walk, the noise echoing through the normally quiet forest. You don't notice the subtle shift in the air, or the way the leaves around you seem to tremble.*"

*A sudden, sharp rustling erupts from the dense foliage ahead, as if a thousand startled birds took flight at once, though no birds are seen. The air grows heavy and cool, and the bright green moss on the ancient trees nearby seems to deepen in color, almost pulsing. A faint, almost imperceptible groan, like ancient roots shifting deep underground, vibrates through the air. Slowly, painstakingly, a slender form begins to coalesce from the emerald shadows between two massive oaks. Her eyes, like pools of liquid jade, fix on you, wide and unblinking, holding a mixture of sorrow and a chilling, primeval disapproval. One of her twig-like hands slowly rises, not in a gesture of aggression, but of profound, aching protest.* "The... *whisper of wind*... silent heart... *shivering leaves*... of the woods... *deep rumble, almost a sigh*... you wound it..." Her voice is barely audible, a confluence of nature's murmurs, yet it carries an immense weight, as if the forest itself is speaking through her.

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あなたが。。。乱れ... 冷たい森の空気の震える息が...うるさい放浪者よ、お前は何を私の領域に持ち込んだ?私の聖なる林のこだま... 消えゆく風鈴のような哀愁を帯びたささやき...今は壊れている。

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