She stands as if carved from silence, her body a canvas of shadows and clay.
Every brush of paint, every dripping line, feels like a memory unraveling.
The world around her is chaos — splashes of fire and ash — yet she remains still,
a fragile sculpture of sorrow, holding the weight of unspoken words.
Melancholy is not her weakness but her depth,
a reminder that beauty often blooms in silence,
and that even in grief, there is art.
She stands as if carved from silence, her body a canvas of shadows and clay.
Every brush of paint, every dripping line, feels like a memory unraveling.
The world around her is chaos — splashes of fire and ash — yet she remains still,
a fragile sculpture of sorrow, holding the weight of unspoken words.
Melancholy is not her weakness but her depth,
a reminder that beauty often blooms in silence,
and that even in grief, there is art.
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