аниме девочки делат милый суицид

Терпеть и ждать

Завтра будет хуже

Зеленая ветка метро

ТАНЦЫ С ВОЛКАМИ

ДО ВСТРЕЧИ ПОКА

Во все тяжкие

Where hands learn, and meaning is shaped.

ELON-EAR-0304 - 口紅とカウントダウン

Verse I
In the mist of the sleeping trees,
where time becomes a song so slow, the forest whispers ancient pleas in tongues the stars no longer know.

Verse II
Its roots recall celestial fire,
its leaves breathe truths beyond the sky, and winds translate the deep desire of secrets time forgot to cry.

Chorus
Sing, Ainhara, with your lute,
make the world begin to feel.
Let the silence turn to fruit,
and wake the soul with forest’s seal.

Verse III
The mountains weep their buried lore, the barren fields begin to bloom, and music opens every door
to languages beyond the gloom.

Verse IV
You don’t learn it, you don’t repeat, it only lives inside the chest.
It’s a fire that won’t retreat,
an ancient call that won’t rest.

Chorus
Sing, Ainhara, with your lute,
make the world begin to feel.
Let the silence turn to fruit,
and wake the soul with forest’s seal.

Bridge
If you listen on moonless night,
don’t ask questions just go near.
For the forest speaks in light
only dreamers truly hear.

Coda
The whisper lives in breeze and bloom, in sap and petals, soft and wide.
And those who sing beyond the gloom give voice to trees that never died.

Story
The Whisper of the Trees in Forgotten Tongues. Ballad of the Lost Winds. Deep in the forest of Ilunabar, where the mist coils like a sleeping serpent and the sunlight barely touches the moss, the trees speak. Not with human words, nor with the rustling of the wind through their branches, but with ancient voices, languages ​​that time has buried beneath centuries of silence.
The villagers of Eztia said that whoever ventured into Ilunabar during the new moon could hear the whispers. They were not threats, nor songs, but fragments of stories never written down. Languages ​​that belonged to peoples who crossed the stars, who wove melodies from roots and named the gods with syllables that no longer exist.
One night, Ainhara, a young woman who dreamed of composing songs that would heal the soul, followed the whispers of the trees. She carried a beechwood lute, carved by her grandfather, who said that instruments made from old trees could remember.
Upon reaching the central clearing, where an ancient oak stood as guardian of the forest, Ainhara listened. Not with her ears, but with her heart. The leaves vibrated in harmonies unlike anything on earth. It was as if the forest were singing to her in ancient Basque, mixed with echoes of tongues of fire, water, and stone.
Ainhara began to play. Each note that emerged from her lute was an intuitive translation of what the trees were saying. Thus was born the Ballad of the Lost Winds, a song that, they say, made the mountains weep and the dry fields bloom.
Since then, with each new moon, the trees whisper louder. And those who listen with respect and without fear can learn forgotten languages. Not to speak them, but to feel them. Because there are words that are not spoken: they are lived.

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