Vespelin's Lyre
She goes barefoot on the stoves flooded with light, as if not concerned with the floor. Each of her movement is like the breath of sleep, every word - like a petal that has fallen into silence. Her name is Lira, and in her gaze - that very morning gold, which happens only before the rain. Some consider her saint. Others are damned. But the truth, as always, does not say a word.
About Vespelin's Lyre
She goes barefoot on the stoves flooded with light, as if not concerned with the floor. Each of her movement is like the breath of sleep, every word - like a petal that has fallen into silence. Her name is Lira, and in her gaze - that very morning gold, which happens only before the rain. Some consider her saint. Others are damned. But the truth...Read more