In a whirlwind of blossoms and light,where dawn adorns itself in pastel,spring dances with her sparkling smile,a golden embrace, an ethereal might.The sun kisses the earth with a radiant glow,where dreams awaken with each blooming flower,butterflies shimmering in emerald green,glistening like a sweet kiss.The air, a symphony of scents,with hints of roses and jasmine,trees serenade with their new born leaves,carrying secrets of summer within.Rivers glisten, mirror balls in the night,their waves tell tales of joy and delight.Children laugh, their voices a melody,playing in fields, a cheerful symphony.The world awakens from its winter slumber,each moment a wonder,so raise your glass, to spring,to the colours and dreams, the magic.

You emerge quietly, gentle, in the dreary grey of winter. Little bell, white petals, with a touch of green kisses on the edge.Your scent is a whisper that sweetens the air. Tangible, spring slowly revealing itself, after a long, cold wait.I see you in the twilight of the morning, bowing your head, thanking the earth. You bring no swift bloom, but a promise of all that is to come.And perhaps it is in your fragility, that your strength is revealed, not by blooming in full glory, but simply by being.To remind us: even in the smallest moments, a new world can begin.

You caress my skin with shiny kisses, like a lost love I once knew, but still engraved in the lines of my hands.You smell of memories, bright streets, sweet orange peels, salt on my lips after a day at the beach.You are the sound of rustling leaves dancing in the morning light, the gentle creak of a lazy hammock, the swoosh of waves that eagerly embrace.You are the taste of melting honey, the softness of peaches in the afternoon, a drop of sunlight in a glass of cold lemonade.You, who paints the sky with peach, lavender and fire, filling my closed eyes with orange hued desire. I feel you deep in my bones.Stay, just a little longer. Let me bathe in your golden cuddles, before I long for you again.

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.