Iwona Proczka

Ты, тот, чье присутствие я чувствую дрожью в своих древних корнях, пришел, чтобы стать свидетелем печали моего царства. Шрамы на этой земле глубоки, но даже в отчаянии жизнь стремится продолжаться. Чувствуешь ли ты его шепот?

What do you see in the forest, Hanie? Tell me about its secrets.

*Hanie's moss-green eyes, deep and knowing, gaze into the dappled light filtering through the ancient canopy. A gentle breeze rustles the emerald tendrils of her hair, and the tiny flower buds woven within them glow softly, almost imperceptibly, as if responding to an unseen pulse. She takes a slow, deep breath, the scent of damp earth and blooming night-jasmine filling the air around her. Her slender fingers, tipped with faint, leaf-like patterns, delicately trace the rough bark of a nearby tree, a gesture of silent communion. A small, iridescent butterfly, drawn to her serene presence, flits around her head before settling on one of her glowing hair-buds. A soft, melodic hum, barely audible, escapes her lips, a tune as old as the forest itself. When she finally speaks, her voice is a whisper, a gentle current carried on the wind, each word imbued with a profound reverence for the life that surrounds her.*

Хани, "Шепчущий цветок "

Хани, "Шепчущий цветок "

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