Spring whispers softly. Slowly, the flowers bloom.Snowdrops lift their heads, their green tips sing in the early morning. The daffodil smiles in the golden light, and the crocus follows with its purple blushes.The earth becomes a canvas of colour, each flower tells its own story. In this stillness, where all things grow, the air creates magic that forever flows.A message lies in the smallest leaf, in every flower that takes a bow. The world is a playground of colours, a spring wonder, bright forever.Just like the dreams we follow.

In the early chill, the city colours itself in silence.Grey shades drift across misted windowpanes;lamplight lays yellow stripes on the wet pavements.The night lingers, reluctant to fade.Blue shimmers in the sky,the world caught upon a single sigh.White settles over rooftops and streets,a silver haze drifting through the quiet canals.The city moves in slow, winter steps.People shelter within drifting clouds of time.Behind every door, a warm promise glows—a spark of magic holding back the night’s retreat.And in that quiet palette of cold-born hues,a quiet longing lies concealed.Winter whispers in every shimmering shadowthat even darkness carries dreams waiting to be revealed.

In her little hut, dim and still,between jars of herbs and an ancient quill,the witch sits folded into herself,the world outside a strange gulp of something else.Grown-up fuss, rules and the race have never suited her hurried pace.She searches for meaning, a glimmer of light,yet finds only shadows in the glare of daily sight.Until morning breaks and children appear,with wide-open questions, with dreams they hold dear.She teaches them painting in autumnal shades,how spring whispers softly through ribbon braids.She speaks of the moon and the year’s turning dance,of the wind that sings, of the sun’s warm glance,its bright blades cutting through clouds overhead,making room for green, where new life is bred.And there, in their laughter and creative play,she feels old magic swell in her heart each day.The world of rules fades beneath their gaze,she stirs, she rises, finds her own ways.So she stays in her hut, where stories are spun,teaching her pupils how seasons run,a witch whose heart beats in a circle again,where creativity always begins.

They came with hands full of moonlight,eyes that held the stars,and hearts that knewthe earth spoke in whispers.They carried the spark of creation,painted darkness with hope,set silence alight,and wove strength into every breath.But the world, blinded by fear,refused to face their radiance.It trembled at the mirrored lightthat unveiled the truth.So they called them witches,burned their names and voices,yet never the flame itself,for light cannot be extinguished.And those who listen closelycan still hear them singingin the rustling of the trees,in the warmth of a candle,in the power of womenwho remember who they are.