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He does not sing. He listens. Perched on a frost-touched branch, among blossoms too brave for winter, he carries the dignity of quiet observation β the art of being still without ever fading.
His plumage is a symphony held in breath: sky-blue, dawn-gold, whisper-white, and that single pulse of crimson at the neck β as if his heart had briefly bloomed outward.
This bird is not a messenger. He is the message.
The background swirls like thought, like fog, like the edge of waking. But he remains, focused, whole. He reminds us that beauty need not perform. That presence, alone, is sacred.
You may never hear his voice. But you will remember the hush he leaves behind.
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