In the silence of dawn, when dew clings lovingly to the lips of every blade, a thought wafts: "What is the color of tomorrow's breath?"
Amidst the soil's embrace, ancient roots murmur tales: "We are but passages for the wind's secrets."
"The seeds carry the weight of unspoken futures," she muses, eyes tracing their quiet symphony on the table.
A land where moons sprout from hedges and thoughts are sown like grains, whispers knows no roots, only echoes.
Have you ever watched a seed dream? When twilight dances with dew, it dreams of elixirs and arcs.