They could be Dryads - spirits of the forest, born from bark and light,
resting where the wildflowers grow and time forgets to move.
Their skin holds the warmth of a thousand suns,
their bodies woven into the earth like roots, like rituals.
Bare, unashamed, untouched by the noise of the modern world, only wind, shadow, and silence brush against them.
Perhaps they are daughters of Persephone,
half-bloomed, half-lost, waiting for the world to soften.
Or maybe they are the goddesses before names were given,
pure presence, pure nature, pure myth.
