Iara Aimer


Spring's Nectar

The earth's womb is said to be mother to the grief, and the latter a genus that bids the horizon for golden suns. Perhaps as golden as the age that once caressed the bone-like fingers of Phoebus, golden as the rings that adorn the wan hands of Phoebus. For eons have they played upon the fragile strings of a harp, as delicately as they held the cup

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