The wind passed through the cracks, blowing away the silence and fog. She is the shadow in the cracks, Chaska, the messenger of the wind, and also a wanderer. Her name is a silent poem, burying the silence before the storm.
Growth is an endless road, fragments like dust, mottled like dreams. From debris to crystals, the free turquoise progresses layer by layer, but it cannot cover the traces of this broken world. The dead leaves and purple flowers are like withered memories, accompanied by the coldness of animal teeth, engraved on her skin, becoming an unhealable wound.
The light of talent flickers in the disputes, teaching, guidance, philosophy, and secret words, summoning the lost souls in the wind. The silk feather is the softness she picked up from the ruins, but it also hurts her heart.
The weapon is a red feather under the starry sky, which is her tightly held belief. The secret smoke of the divine union is diffused, and the refraction germ shines. Every material is like a broken dream, which cannot be pieced together, but is indispensable. The low whistle is a silent call from afar, broken yet continuous.
Mora is the time that passes in the endless desert, and the broken gold she picked up, supporting this seemingly lonely but inevitable journey. The deep and entangled gaze is the reflection of the storm in the eyes, and the purple leaves of Nata are the symbol of loss and rebirth.
Her growth is the gaze of the cracks in the wind, the interweaving of light and shadow. She moves forward in silence and sings in the cracks. Chaska, the poem of the wind, is written in the bones and blood of this land.