The cream of the morning on the windowsill, a plum blossom quietly opens. Indoor fresh snow falls like squares on the outskirts. A hint of fragrance, rebellious Hogan, holds the first rays of light and slowly sends them to the master bedroom. The green curtain dances with the light. A trace of warmth ripples in the air. The folder on the bedside table smiles, sea-blue eyes watch from afar, unable to conceal my self-confidence and strength. The Clivia in the corner of the table silently exudes continuous fragrance. Clean sheets store last night's dreams. A glass of water, sedimenting past sorrows. The computer on the desk flashes with hope for the future. The girl's boudoir, dedicated to pounding verses, transmits visions of better literature, like secrets of the heart spoken to her lover. Oh, the girl’s boudoir, how fascinating. Flies dance in the spring sky, streams sing near the hut. Oh, the girl’s bedroom, filled with colorful light, like an array of galleries, giving people endless reverie.
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