- Alberto Thirion
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Behind the mist Color emerges with a shy, fiery glow, weaving branches of a tender pink, while the water, in its sightless silence, clothes the landscape in winter’s skin. There is a pulse within the living wood that defies the ashen sky, and a pensive silhouette in the distance, taking root amidst the wind. It is the patience of the waiting flower, the mystery the landscape holds: the contradiction of a spring born in solitude, where the earth dies.
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