Zerkalo

A waxen hush seeps from old wooden rooms, embalming time in fragrant shadows.

Winter falls heavy on the village you once knew, and every silent, smoky path carries you from the home you can no longer reach.

Green, bitter, ancestral. Like a memory exiled from nature itself, reminding you that even the simulacrum dreams of decay.

Outlands dissolve,
edges bleed into nowhere.
Nameless tides unfold.
You drift — but never arrive.

Veiled in silent white,
a peak guards the bleeding,
breath of trees —
time forgets to move.