Sakura: Resonance of the Soil

In the depths of time, there remained the warmth of the earth, the rusty taste of parting, and a faint trace of light—one that does not return, yet never quite vanishes. The journey was neither joyful nor sad; it was necessary. Like a breath that does not ask where it goes when it leaves the lungs.

A landscape where the wind has stopped, only to listen to its own silence. Each brushstroke is like a layer of forgetting, piling upon that which once had clear outlines.

There is no need to hurry, for in this mist, no "after" exists. There is only an infinite "now," stretched between an indifferent sky and the earth that gratefully drinks in all that is left of us.

The Sakura has blossomed its last.

Its flowers have lost themselves, yet they did not perish—they seeped into the ground, transforming into a brownish tenderness, into the ashes of something beautiful that understood that leaving is a form of return.

All that remains is the fullness of being, soft as the palms of the elderly and deep as roots that found their water long ago.

Sometimes, the journey takes place within—where colors bleed into a quiet consent and pain dissolves into the endless haze of presence.

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