Pencil Metamorphis

The mountain air trembles with color. An old artist sits among the flowers, his sketchbook open like a window between worlds. Each pencil stroke is a pulse : a rhythm through which imagination transforms into fragrance, pigment, life. Around him, the meadow seems to breathe in harmony with his hand: poppies tilt closer, clouds unfold like gentle applause, and the distant peaks glow as if remembering their own creation. There’s something divine yet tender in this metamorphosis :the alchemy of graphite becoming garden, of solitude becoming song. One feels that he’s not painting nature, but listening to it : and the world, for once, listens back.