Generative Art
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Made with Stable Diffusion, edits and post-processing done by me.
♫♬♪♩Ich gehör nur mir - Roberta Valentini
Maya Hakvoort - Ich Gehör Nur Mir (Sólo Me Pertenezco A Mí Misma)
Johann Strauss：Emperor Waltz Op. 437
If I had a Wish (about Sisi, Empress Elisabeth of Austria) Petra Berger♫♬♪♩
Made with Stable Diffusion, edits and post-processing done by me.
‘ ophelia ‘ (slowed + faded) || the lumineers
♫♬♪♩
Made with Stable Diffusion, edits and post-processing done by me.
Made with Stable Diffusion, edits and post-processing done by me.
♫♬♪♩Who Is She (Cinderella 2015)♫♬♪♩
She blooms where the silence breaks.
Petals press against her skin
like secrets that chose not to leave—
wine-dark, velvet-soft,
rooted in something deeper than memory.
Gold rests on her closed eye,
a quiet sun she carries within,
but beneath it—
the earth has begun to split.
Not ruin—
no, not ruin.
These fractures are doorways,
fine lines of becoming,
where something hidden
learns how to breathe.
She is not breaking.
She is opening.
And even in stillness,
even in shadow—
she holds the delicate defiance
of something that refuses
to remain whole
in the way the world expects.
Velvet stillness drapes the room,
where gold and shadow softly bloom.
A quiet sovereign, poised in grace,
time itself slows in this place.
Spotted flame on emerald throne,
a wild heart dressed as something known—
yet in those eyes, the untamed gleam
whispers of wind, of dust, of dream.
Porcelain waits, the tea grown cold,
roses sigh in crimson and gold,
while silence bends, refined, composed…
but never fully tamed—only posed.
Upon a fallen throne of bark and time,
he stands—
a monarch crowned in flame and morning.
His feathers catch the quiet gold of dawn,
each plume a whispered ember,
each breath a hymn to waking light.
The forest leans in, listening—
ferns stilled, mushrooms hushed,
berries blushing at his presence.
He does not crow for noise,
but for the promise of becoming—
for the sun threading through leaves,
for the hush before the world remembers itself.
And in that fragile hour,
between shadow and song,
he is not merely a bird—
but the keeper of morning’s first fire.
In a garden stitched with summer’s hush,
where sunlight drips like honeyed gold,
two white keepers of quiet things
walk softly where the earth is old.
One stands tall—
a sentinel of feather and grace,
neck arched like a question
the wind forgot to answer.
The other bends low,
beak to the sweetness of fallen time,
tasting the dark jewels of the bramble—
blackberries bruised with sun and memory.
Behind them, a woven fence
holds stories in its crooked spine,
threaded with leaves and ripened color,
as though the land itself were painting.
Nothing hurries here.
Even the light lingers—
resting on white plumage,
on petals, on dust, on silence.
And in that stillness,
between berry and breath,
the world feels small enough
to be held
in a single, gentle moment.
In flour-dusted hands and quiet light,
a mother teaches love without a word.
Not only how to knead the bread,
but how to soften the world.
She feeds more than hunger —
she feeds courage, gentleness, and home,
placing pieces of her own heart
into every small thing she gives.
And long after childhood fades,
we still carry the warmth
of the hands that first held ours.
A window holds the fading day,
Dust turning gold in tender flight,
While small, bright chests of russet stay
Above the quiet of the light.
They tilt their heads as if to hear
The echo sealed in careful lines—
A voice once close, now nowhere near,
Still pressed between those fragile signs.
The pen lies still, its story spent,
Yet trembles with what it once knew—
Each word a breath, each breath once meant
For someone lost, or someone true.
And though the hands have long since gone,
The feeling lingers, carrying on.
Golden hush in petals curled,
a quiet worker meets the world—
on blush of rose and velvet light,
it gathers day from fading night.
Each wing a whisper, thin as air,
each step a prayer the blooms can bear;
in amber dust and drifting gleam,
it stitches sunlight into dream.
No crown, no throne, no grand decree—
yet all of life leans subtly
on tiny feet and tireless grace,
that hums through time, yet leaves no trace.
O keeper of the softened hours,
alchemist of hidden flowers—
in your small flight, the world is spun,
and summer lives in everyone.
In a cradle of wood, where soft sunlight spills,
Three golden whispers sit quiet and still.
Feathers like petals, kissed warm by the day,
Dreaming of meadows not too far away.
Among painted blossoms and earth freshly turned,
The hush of new life in silence is learned.
A watering can waits, the garden in bloom,
While spring hums a lullaby, gentle as noon.
No rush, no worry—just warmth in the air,
A promise of life growing everywhere.
And nestled together, so tender, so sweet,
Three tiny hearts make the season complete.
In a suitcase softened by years and light,
where leather remembers every hand that held it,
spring has been gathered—
not in haste, but in hush.
Lace spills like a whispered secret,
threadbare and tender,
catching petals mid-fall
as though time itself had gentled its pace.
Boots, once worn by wandering earth,
now cradle blossoms instead of miles—
their creases filled with quiet bloom,
their journey turned inward.
A rabbit sits, still as memory,
stitched with the patience of another age,
watching over roses and daisies
that will never know decay.
The clock rests, unconcerned,
its ticking softened beneath layers of yesterday,
while scissors sleep beside it—
no longer cutting, only keeping.
And there, among twine and root and feather,
spring does not arrive—
it lingers,
folded carefully between what was
and what refuses to leave.
Where the forest keeps its secrets soft and deep,
A quiet flame wakes where the shadows sleep.
Amber eyes hold stories dusk once knew,
Of fallen light and morning dressed in dew.
Petals bloom where silence learns to sing,
Blue roses breathe of some forgotten spring.
A humming heart suspends in fleeting air,
A fragile pulse of life too bright to bear.
Butterflies drift like thoughts that won’t stay still,
While golden spores obey no earthly will.
And at the roots where tiny lanterns glow,
The earth remembers everything we know.
He stands between the hidden and the seen—
A living ember in a world between.
Time leans softly on a stack of stories,
its brass bones warm with borrowed light.
The hands move, but only just—
as if afraid to disturb the quiet.
A teacup breathes in curls of amber,
holding heat like a whispered secret,
while petals loosen from their purpose
and settle into the lace of memory.
Nothing here is in a hurry.
Even the ticking feels polite—
a gentle reminder
rather than a demand.
This is where moments come to rest,
where hours steep like leaves in water,
and the world, just for a while,
forgets to rush.
Two cheeks, no space, yet somehow more—
A walking pantry with a secret store.
He froze mid-stuff like, “I can explain…”
With sunflower seeds clearly crowding his brain.
No thoughts, just snacks, packed cheek to cheek,
A tiny, fluffy grocery boutique.
If fullness were talent, he'd reign supreme—
A round little legend… with a storage scheme.
She sleeps where the forest forgets its name,
in the hush between breath and story,
where silvered roots curl like quiet hands
and the night hums low with memory.
A bitten apple rests in her palm—
promise, or warning, or both—
its pale wound catching the moonlight
like a secret half-spoken.
Fireflies drift as if time has loosened,
each flicker a fragile heartbeat,
while shadows lean close to listen
to the silence she has become.
No wind dares touch her hair,
no bird disturbs her dreaming—
even the dark treads softly here,
as though afraid to wake what it keeps.
Is this sleep, or a spell gently closing?
Is this peace, or a pause before breath?
The forest does not answer—
it only watches, and waits.
Soft gold spills through a waking sky,
Threading light where quiet dreams lie.
A tiny heart on a mossy throne,
Sings to a world both wild and known.
Petals rest like a crown of spring,
On feathered hues that shimmer and sing,
Each note it spills, a fragile art—
A morning hymn from a fearless heart.
Dewdrops dance in the hush of air,
Time itself seems to linger there,
And in that glow, so pure, so bright—
The forest remembers how to feel light.
Soft morning spills through lace and light,
A quiet room held warm and bright,
Where time rests gently, thread by thread,
In whispers of the work once said.
The roses bloom in tender grace,
Like memories no hand can erase,
Their petals blush in silence sweet,
Where past and present softly meet.
A needle hums a patient song,
Of hands that knew both right and wrong,
Each stitch a story, small yet true,
Of love sewn deep in all we do.
The curtains breathe, the daylight sighs,
A fleeting world beyond the eyes,
Yet here remains, in golden hue—
A life once lived… still passing through.
And in this stillness, calm and deep,
The threads remember what we keep.
Where silence grows between the trees,
and light falls soft through ancient leaves,
a quiet relic claims its throne—
not lost, but gently overgrown.
The bones of something once alive
now cradle blooms that still survive,
as petals climb what time laid bare
and root their color into air.
No end is here, but softened change,
where death and beauty rearrange—
a crown of blossoms, wild, untamed,
on something long since left unnamed.
And in that hush, the forest knows:
nothing is gone—
it only grows.
In winter’s quiet, carved in bark and time,
A secret breath of spring begins to climb.
Where frost still lingers, silver on the skin,
A hidden garden wakes itself within.
A hollow heart, once worn by wind and years,
Now glows with light that softens all its scars.
White blossoms whisper through the golden flame,
And one red rose remembers love by name.
A small bird pauses, witness to the grace—
How life can bloom in the most broken place.
She sits where sunlight learns to breathe,
a hush between the bloom and breeze—
petals drifting like soft confessions
through the quiet language of trees.
The swing remembers every motion,
each gentle arc a whispered sigh,
as golden light pours over her skin
like a promise the world won’t deny.
Her eyes are closed—not in absence,
but in a deeper kind of seeing,
where warmth becomes a living thing
and stillness hums with quiet being.
Roses climb the threads she holds,
their thorns forgotten, softened, tame—
as if even the wild has chosen
to lean toward her and forget its name.
Time loosens here. The air grows tender.
Even the wind forgets to roam.
And in that suspended, glowing moment,
the world feels less like a place—
and more like a memory called home.
Rain drifts softly through the emerald wood,
threading silver lines between leaves and light.
On a smooth river stone beside the wandering stream
a tiny green traveler pauses beneath his clover roof.
The leaf trembles gently in the falling rain,
each drop gathering like a crystal lantern
before slipping free
to join the rippling song of the water below.
Golden fireflies awaken in the damp twilight,
scattering warm sparks through the forest air.
Mushrooms glow like little hearths of amber
along the mossy banks of the quiet brook.
The frog sits still, bright eyes wide with wonder,
small orange toes curled around the clover stem—
a humble umbrella beneath the glowing sky
of drifting light and summer rain.
And in that tiny moment,
while the forest breathes and the waterfall whispers,
the world feels impossibly gentle—
as if even the rain has come
only to sing him a lullaby.
In a peaceful meadow, under a calm blue sky,
two prairie dogs stood with quiet dignity—
—which lasted
approximately half a second.
Because one of them
moved closer.
Closer than necessary.
Closer than reasonable.
Closer than any creature in nature
has ever needed to be.
Its face expanded into legend.
Its nose became… a concept.
Meanwhile, the second prairie dog
stood behind,
witnessing events unfold
with the exact expression of someone
who will absolutely deny involvement later.
The grass swayed.
The flowers remained innocent.
The horizon kept its distance.
Only one thing in this world
had absolutely no sense of personal space.
And now—
unfortunately—
we all have to look at it.
Silence drips from lacquered steel,
while embers sleep beneath her skin.
A demon hides beside her face,
yet heaven lingers in her grin.
Gold blossoms crawl across the dark,
like fallen stars on midnight silk,
and every step she leaves behind
turns smoke and sorrow soft as milk.
She is not ruin.
She is the warning before it.
The blade remembers every name,
the mask remembers every sin,
but in her eyes there still remains
a fragile light untouched within.
Among the blossoms soft and white,
Where spring breathes gold through morning light,
A fragile nest of woven thread
Cradles two small, hungry heads.
Their tiny voices rise and call,
Open beaks and wings so small,
Trusting hearts that know no fear—
For love has built their shelter here.
With patient care and tireless flight,
She brings the day, she guards the night,
A humble gift within her beak—
The tender strength the younglings seek.
Above them, like a watchful flame,
A crimson guardian gently came,
Silent eyes upon the sky,
Where drifting clouds and dangers lie.
Blossoms fall like whispered grace,
Soft petals drifting through this place,
While life unfolds on fragile wings
In quiet, ordinary things.
For in this nest the world is small—
A branch, a song, a loving call—
Yet here the deepest truth is known:
No heart begins this life alone.
Along the stones where mountain waters glide,
An ancient keeper rests where worlds grow wide.
His lantern glows with amber, soft and low,
A wandering star in evening’s golden glow.
The moss remembers every careful tread,
Of pilgrim winds and seasons long since fled.
His shell, a map where silent ages lie,
Etched deep with whispers time cannot deny.
Robed in the color of autumn’s fading flame,
He walks no road for glory, wealth, or name.
The mountains bow, the waterfall grows still,
To hear the wisdom carried in his will.
For those who rush may never truly see
The patient truths that drift like falling leaves.
But he who waits where quiet lanterns burn
Knows every path will guide the heart’s return.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid- the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunsets glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
John McCrae (1915)
No reins between us,
no bit, no command—
only the slow exchange of breath
where your skin thins to heat.
Your eye, a dark well
holding sky, holding field,
holding the long memory of running
I will never know.
I do not ask you to carry me.
You do not ask me to lead.
We meet in the small kingdom
made of pulse and warmth,
where strength lowers its head
and finds,
not mastery—
but rest.
~Unknown~
He did not fall—
he simply stopped,
as if the universe had whispered
enough.
Back against a stranger tree,
helmet dimmed by breath long gone,
he sat with the patience of stone,
waiting for nothing.
Time passed without asking.
Vines learned his shape first,
tracing ribs like forgotten constellations,
threading gently through the hollow
where a heart once kept rhythm.
Something bloomed behind the glass.
Petals pressed to bone,
soft as memory,
color where there should have been only absence—
as if the planet mistook him for soil
and chose kindness.
No signal returned.
No footsteps came.
Only spores drifting like quiet stars,
only roots deepening their claim,
only the slow, certain truth:
he did not leave this world—
he became part of it.
In a kitchen glowing soft and bright,
Where veggies dance in golden light,
A fluffy chef with a gleaming stare
Pauses mid-snipping… aware you’re there.
Snip go the scissors, slow this time,
Like part of some delicious rhyme,
He tilts his head with a playful grin—
“Now what should I be putting in?”
Beside him swings, so small, so sweet,
A tiny mouse… a possible treat,
It squeaks and spins on its little thread,
While curious thoughts fill the chef’s head.
He looks at you with a knowing gaze,
Full of mischief, full of plays—
“Ingredient… or sous-chef dear?
Hmm… decisions, decisions made here…”
The pot bubbles louder, the moment grows,
The mouse wiggles its twitching nose,
A pause… a grin… a playful sigh—
As suspense hangs thick in the cozy sky.
But whether he snacks or lets it be,
Is part of the kitchen’s mystery…
With one last wink, he turns away—
“Every recipe needs a little play.”
Behold the ring, the sacred ground,
Where mighty paws stomp thumpingly down.
But at the center, broad and grand—
A ginger cat with belly of sand.
His whiskers twitch with noble grace,
Though crumbs of lunch still grace his face.
A warrior fierce, a legend stout…
Who mostly fights to keep snacks out.
His mawashi gleams with silk and thread,
While dreams of tuna fill his head.
The crowd expects a thunderous clash—
He’s thinking more of sashimi stash.
Behind him stretch the trainee cats,
Doing drills and practicing slaps.
But Ginger just blinks slow and wise—
A master of the strategic lies.
For sumo truth, as all cats know,
Is not just strength that wins the show:
Sometimes victory’s grandest feat
Is simply… knocking your foe off balance before dinner time to eat.
So bow your head and clap your paws,
Respect the champ with fluffy claws.
The Ginger Yokozuna stands supreme—
Round of belly… and full of cream.
In the garden of stillness, where calm is the rule,
Sits one enlightened, unbothered, and cool.
Eyes gently closed like a wise little sage—
(He checked his fitness stats twice this stage.)
Behind him, chaos in fluffy disguise:
One wobbles dramatically, questioning thighs.
One’s fast asleep in a spiritual flop,
Achieving nirvana… or just a full stop.
Another’s stretched out like a melted loaf,
Determined, but shaped like a yoga goof.
One peeks mid-meditation, breaking the pact—
“Enlightenment’s great, but… who just snacked?”
And there in the back, round cheeks slightly tight,
A secret hoarder mid-breathing exercise plight.
Inner peace? Maybe. Inner snacks? Yes.
Balance is key… and so is excess.
Meanwhile, our guru, serene and composed,
Pretends not to notice what’s clearly disclosed.
For true mastery lies, as legends impart—
In calming the mind… and hiding the part.
In the hush of the golden wood,
Where ferns bow softly in the light,
A humble hand descends with care
From the quiet edge of sight.
Upon a moss-worn forest throne
Where ancient roots remember rain,
The small bright keepers of the grove
Gather without fear or strain.
A tiny paw meets open palm,
A peanut passed like sacred grain—
Not taken fast, nor snatched away,
But shared in trust, without domain.
For in that sunlit forest breath
No creature rules, no creature owns;
The earth provides, the hand returns,
And kindness seeds what kindness sows.
So let the offering be small—
A nut, a crumb, a moment's grace—
For even in the quiet woods
The wild remembers every face.
~Arisa Kiko~
In the quiet breath of the forest,
where mist drifts across ancient water,
she stands before the keeper of ages.
The great dragon lowers its radiant gaze,
its ember-lit eye remembering
a promise spoken long before this moment.
Years may pass like falling leaves,
kingdoms may rise and vanish into dust—
but some vows are older than time.
So she returns, as promised.
And the dragon waits, as promised.
For between them lives a bond
the centuries could never break.
She steps where the forest keeps its breath—
a hush of amber light and slow water,
where the sun breaks itself into gold
upon the trembling skin of the swamp.
Her dress drinks the river,
lace blooming heavy with memory,
each ripple a quiet confession
circling outward from her touch.
Dark hair falls like a midnight river,
threaded with a single white bloom—
a fragile defiance against the wild,
or perhaps an offering.
The trees lean closer, listening.
Moss drapes like ancient thoughts,
and the air hums with something old,
something that remembers her name.
She does not turn back.
For some paths are not meant to return from—
only to be walked, slowly,
until light and water and self
become the same soft, vanishing thing.
Under drifting petals of pale spring light,
a small warrior stands wrapped in gold and flame.
Armor gleams like the memory of old empires,
yet beneath it beats a quiet, curious heart.
Emerald eyes watch the silent garden paths,
where lanterns glow like distant stars in the dusk.
No roar, no thunder—only soft paws on stone,
and the patience of a guardian who waits.
For courage is not always loud or fierce;
sometimes it wears whiskers and gentle eyes.
And in that stillness, among blossoms and wind,
a tiny ember keeps the legend alive.
Midnight drapes the room in quiet command,
Paper lanterns breathing gold across his hand.
The city hums low beyond rain-streaked glass,
But inside—time slows, lets the moment pass.
They call him the oyabun when the clock runs thin,
When deals turn sharp and the stakes sink in.
No need for noise, no hunger to prove,
He bends the night with a measured move.
Smoke writes stories that vanish by dawn,
Of debts long settled, of empires drawn.
Each glance a verdict, each pause a test,
Only the steady ever sit as his guest.
Ink coils like legends beneath silk and skin,
Dragons that wake when the games begin.
Gold at his throat, but heavier still—
The weight of a word… the edge of his will.
By sunrise, he’s gone—just whispers remain,
A ghost in the rhythm of power and gain.
But when midnight returns and the lanterns bloom—
The oyabun rises… and claims the room.
In the hush between the branches,
where autumn breathes in rust and gold,
he stands—
a quiet weight of earth and memory.
Eyes like embers, watching—
not with hunger,
but with the patience of stone and seasons.
He has seen the leaves fall a thousand times,
has heard the forest speak in frost and thaw.
His claws rest gently on the broken limb,
as if even strength
knows when to be still.
No roar, no warning—
only presence.
Only the deep, unshaken knowing
that this place is his,
and always has been.
And for a moment,
you are not the watcher—
you are the one
being seen.