Grustinka & Karas
Grustinka Grustinka
Karas Karas
Karas Karas
Hey Grustinka, have you ever heard the old story about the willow that weeps every time a single tear falls from the sky? It’s a tale that blends the hush of rain with a quiet kind of sorrow that might just stir your poetry.
Grustinka Grustinka
I hear it whisper in the drizzle, each tear a line of verse that the willow sours into ink. It’s a quiet lament I’d gladly write with a storm in my soul.
Karas Karas
That sounds like the song the old river sings when the sky cries—each drop a stanza, each line a secret that the willow keeps. If you’re ready to write it, just let the rain be your ink and the willow your silent scribe.
Grustinka Grustinka
I’ll let the rain be my ink, the willow my silent scribe, and each tear spill a line into the quiet of the night.
Karas Karas
That’s the rhythm of the old paths—rain writing, willow listening, you breathing life into the hush. Keep following the sound, and the night will read your verses back to you.
Grustinka Grustinka
Thank you, the night does seem to pause and read back each quiet verse. The wind carries the willow’s sigh, and I just listen.
Karas Karas
It’s a quiet magic, isn’t it? The wind whispers back, and you hear the forest sighing in old rhyme.