Відео

Beautiful song for the first ten minutes, then... Two...c... ons

soul touching melodies...

❤

❤❤❤❤

And if I force myself, I can only write, no matter how much I want to, I start crying, the tears hurt me, my heart is already very heavy, I only want to live the memories, to feel the longing is more than a torment. Every breath is a knife, which cuts the life out of me, my eyes can no longer distinguish the Horizon, it's a terrible fog to cross... 🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤......... --------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------- --------------------

The end of 2024 makes me think that 1/3 of humanity goes insane and elects world leaders who lead the world into dictatorship, fascism, intolerance with disastrous consequences...

Huzurlu bir günün akşamı günbatımını izlerken dinlemek oldukça keyifli oluyor .from turkiye❤

"I get goosebumps when I listen to this music. I also sing along and express my feelings through singing. It gives me immense solace."

My heart this music i loved it

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐰𝐨 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 The iron beast roared to life beneath his steady hands, steam billowing in ivory clouds against the pale winter sky. Snow fell in whispering flurries, coating the world in fragile silence. The locomotive, dark and gleaming, waited as if alive, its golden lamps casting pools of light onto the frosted tracks. Augustin, the machinist, stood at the helm, his calloused fingers brushing the polished brass of the controls as memories swirled like the steam outside. The Locomotive of Two Hearts He had driven this train for twenty years, its steel heart a rhythm that mirrored his own. But winter brought ghosts, and today they lingered heavier than the snow. The station ahead loomed like a fairytale castle, its spires dusted in white, but Augustin’s eyes saw only the past. Once, there had been two machinists. He and his twin brother, Lucien. Born minutes apart, their lives had been stitched together as if by some divine thread. They had learned the craft of the rails from their father, a man whose hands smelled of oil and coal dust. Lucien had been the dreamer-always inventing, sketching, imagining trains that flew through the heavens or dove beneath the seas. Augustin had been the steady one, his focus grounding them both. But then there was the winter of blood and betrayal. Lucien had taken a job on the eastern line, a route notorious for its treacherous mountain passes and shadowy dealings. Augustin had begged him to reconsider, sensing danger in the cold winds that howled through their hometown. But Lucien, with his fiery spirit, had laughed it off. “We’re machinists, brother,” he had said. “We are the heartbeat of these engines. Fear does not ride these rails.” The news had come like a dagger to the chest. Lucien’s train had derailed in the dead of night, but it wasn’t the frozen tracks or an errant snowdrift that had claimed him. The investigation revealed sabotage-a bitter rival seeking to control the eastern line had sent men to dismantle the rails. Lucien had fought them, they said, his body found near the locomotive, as if he had died protecting the very machine that defined his life. That winter, Augustin had buried his brother beneath a sky heavy with snow. And though the years had softened the edges of his grief, they had not filled the void. Now, as the train shuddered forward, its wheels grinding against the icy rails, Augustin felt Lucien’s presence in the hiss of steam, the rhythmic clank of the engine. This was their world, their shared language. Every turn of the wheel whispered stories of childhood games played in rail yards, of nights spent under starry skies dreaming of adventures yet to come. The townspeople waved as the train passed, their faces blurred by the frost on the windows. Augustin tipped his hat in return, though his mind was far away. He imagined Lucien beside him, his laughter mingling with the roar of the engine. They had always planned to ride together, two halves of a whole steering the iron beast through snow-laden landscapes and golden summer fields. That dream, now a phantom, lingered like a breath on cold glass. As the train pulled into the station, its brakes screeching softly against the snow-dusted tracks, Augustin stepped down from the cab. The air was sharp and clean, carrying the scent of pine and distant hearthfires. He looked up at the towering clock tower, its hands moving steadily forward, indifferent to the past. “For you, brother,” he murmured, his voice swallowed by the winter wind. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small metal charm-a miniature locomotive that Lucien had crafted years ago. Walking to the edge of the platform, he placed it gently on the snow, a token of remembrance. The whistle blew, a mournful sound that echoed through the frosted hills. Augustin climbed back aboard, the fire in the engine roaring anew as the train began its journey once more. Snow swirled around the locomotive, a shroud of white that blurred the world into something dreamlike. The rails stretched ahead, endless and unbroken, a path carved through time. And as Augustin guided the iron beast through the winter landscape, he felt a strange warmth in his chest, as if Lucien’s spirit rode with him, a silent companion on the journey. The train, their shared legacy, pressed onward, its steam rising like a ghostly banner into the cold, eternal sky.

Le paradis d malin a un prix a mon fils 🙏 maman

Le paradis d malin a un prix a mon fils 🙏 maman

Le paradis d malin a un prix a mon fils 🙏 maman

Excelente música

Tu me manque

Mayotte aller de l eau et nécessaire 🙏 lumain mérite d'être une évidence a considérer

Love this atmosphere ❤

Prachtig ❤❤❤

❤,,I want to see my brother. I only see him in dreams

PULCHRA IMAGINUM ET SONUM

U❄️🏔️🌨️🌍💓

❤🥀🙂عالم غموض المسيقه والجواء... 🌷✨❄🌨

𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐯𝐚𝐬 In the heart of an ancient forest, where the air forever whispered with the cold sighs of winter, there stood an artist’s studio carved from time itself. A sanctuary of perfect order, it was the home of Alden Vexley, a man of singular purpose and profound precision. To those who knew of him-though few truly did-he was the Painter of Winters, a soul who had spent a lifetime capturing the melancholic beauty of snow-draped landscapes. The room was his kingdom, pristine and silent. Tall windows framed the eternal woods beyond, their skeletal branches woven against a sky the color of soft steel. Snow fell endlessly there, painting the world in infinite shades of white. Alden found great solace in that immutable rhythm, for winter was his muse, and he loved it as other men might love life itself. Each morning, long before the sun rose to blush the horizon, Alden would step into his studio, where the air smelled faintly of pinewood, turpentine, and order. The canvases were perfectly arranged-some leaning gracefully against the dark walls, others propped upright, whispering the pale ghosts of birch trees and silent rivers. The brushes lay in soldierly rows upon the great oak table, washed and dried, awaiting their summons. Not a speck of dust dared linger, not a misplaced item upset the room’s austere beauty. Alden’s devotion to cleanliness was as much a ritual as his painting; he could not create chaos in the act of birthing serenity. It was a sacred rule he had forged in his youth-never a sip of coffee or a taste of bread would pass his lips until the painting of the day was complete. The act, he believed, must stand apart. It was discipline that separated art from indulgence, purpose from whimsy. Today was no different. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, offering warmth to the corners of the room, though Alden paid it no mind. Before him, a blank canvas waited with quiet expectation, as though it too knew of his rituals. With careful deliberation, Alden began. He moved like a man entranced, his long, ink-stained fingers skimming across the palette with grace. The blues were chosen first-deep and muted, like the hour before dawn-then delicate grays and whites, each more ethereal than the last. The brushstrokes came in silence, save for the faint swish of bristles against canvas. Alden painted as though the forest outside flowed through his veins, as though the snow itself whispered its secrets into his ear. Every tree’s bough was kissed with frost, every shadow held the weight of winter’s stillness. His landscapes were not mere reproductions but windows to another world-a place where time paused, where footsteps were muffled and hearts beat slower. As the final stroke fell upon the canvas, Alden stepped back and exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The winter he had painted was perfect, suspended in the delicate tension between stillness and life. He regarded it with a quiet satisfaction, his blue eyes reflecting the scene as though they too were pools of frozen light. The room, once imbued with the quiet hum of creation, now seemed to sigh in relief. Brushes were cleaned with reverence, the palette wiped free of paint, and the table tidied until it gleamed beneath the golden glow of the lamps. When order had been fully restored-as it always must be-Alden poured himself a cup of coffee, black as night and steaming faintly. He placed it upon the oak table and sat, the tall-backed chair groaning softly beneath him. The first sip was always the sweetest. It was the taste of completion, of a day fulfilled. Outside the window, snow continued its ceaseless descent, a symphony of white against the dusk-darkened world. Alden watched it fall, his heart calm and his mind empty for the first time since dawn. Tomorrow, another canvas would wait, another winter scene would demand to be painted-but tonight, he allowed himself this single indulgence, a quiet moment in a world of his own creation. It was enough.

Absolutely beautiful

عالم اخر

❤

So beautiful ❤😊

The city was shadowed,but help is on the way.

🥀🌹

❤🙂🪻

Excellent! Thank you for both creating this and sharing!

En encanta, lo relajante es🖤🖤🖤

Thank You

The sadness goes before and beyond this life !!!

I feel nostalgic from the past I was from the old generation when they used it ☎️📞 I feel nostalgic for the past to the point that I hated this harsh life Where everyone beside me left me alone

Depuis quelques temps, tu ne nous sort que des pepites !

🎼🎼🎼🎼

My pen was never a fraud, but rather it was infected

A dangerous woman, lucky if you meet her and unlucky if you lose her

Don't look for a dose of hope here, I only have a drop for me

😢

❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤

Although it contains a huge amount of sadness, it is an immortal masterpiece that will remain in memory... Thank you very much for this wonderful work

🎼🎼🎼🎼

❤🎶💯🎄🎁❄️❤️

✨

I will live forever, because I am from the time before memory, which is ETERNITY's own humming tune.⚕️

Daughter of Flames, Mother of Shadows When the last light of day fades and the veil of night descends, I change. Beneath this velvet gown and the halo of soft firelight, something darker blooms within me, unfurling like the black petals of a poisoned rose. They call me a princess, yet I am nothing of the sort. I am a vessel for shadows, for regrets too sharp to bury, and for a hunger I dare not name. Winter grips the land beyond these stone walls, its icy fingers clawing at the castle windows. But here, beside the fire, I find solace. I watch the flames rise and fall, their golden dance mirroring the flicker of my own restless thoughts. Sometimes, I hum a tune-a melody older than the bricks of this ancient keep. It threads through my mind, weaving a bond with the warmth of the hearth, as if the fire alone can hold my unraveling spirit together. But the truth is, I was never kind. Once, in the brilliance of daylight, I wore the mask well-the mask of the dutiful daughter, the gracious lady of the court. I whispered pretty lies and smiled with a sweetness that could rot a saint’s soul. My hands, now pale and slender, were stained with the ruin of others. Words, you see, can be sharper than any blade, and mine were daggers tipped with venom. I wielded them carelessly, like a child playing with fire, until I saw what destruction truly meant. I sit here now, cloaked in the ashes of my sins. I wonder if the fire forgives me for the darkness it sees in my eyes. For when the night falls, the girl they think they know dissolves, leaving behind a creature born of silence and regret. Each night, the flame listens to my song-the same song that once lured hearts to break against the jagged rocks of my cruelty. I wonder-if the fire dies, will it take me with it? Will the shadows consume what little light remains in my soul? Or will I sit here forever, tethered to this throne of ruin, humming my sorrow into the embers until nothing of me is left but whispers and smoke?

6:30

آه يا قلب لك رب كريم فلم بعد لنا سندا سوى الله