gossamer

She stood in a wide meadow covered in delicate flowers, where the sun’s rays fell on the blossoms like liquid gold.
Her dress was as gossamer as the early morning mist that settled over the land, barely perceptible and yet present.
It was a soft shade of lavender, as if it were a flower itself that had grown out of the fields.

She walked slowly, with light steps, as if she barely wanted to touch the ground so as not to hurt the delicate plants beneath her.
The gentle breeze caressed her face, ran through her hair and made the fabric of her dress whisper – a silent song that only nature understood.
It was as if she was part of the landscape, a being interwoven with the meadow, inseparable from the colors and scents around her.

The flowers, in myriad shades of purple and white, seemed to lean towards her as if to greet her, as if she were an old friend who had returned after a long time.
She smiled gently, a smile that was spoken more with the heart than with the lips.

For a moment, time stood still.
At that moment, there was only the warmth of the sun, the scent of the flowers and the gentle rustle of the wind.
Everything else was far away, unimportant and distant.
It was a moment of calm, simplicity and peace – a brief but precious moment in which the world seemed perfect.

And so she stood there, still and yet alive, enveloped in the poetry of nature, while the sun slowly sank lower and the light glowed over the fields in warm golden tones.