The faun

With his pointed, furry ears strained toward the distant chirping of a blackbird, the bronze faun, motionless and silent, watches over a world that is no longer his. His metallic, dark, and lifeless eyes observe the constant chaos of the avenue below. The hurried, indifferent faces of the passersby, the shiny carriages speeding by, and the deafening noises that fill the air—all clash with his ancient, wild nature.

​His slender, solid, goat-like legs no longer feel the fresh, damp grass of the forest, but the cold, smooth marble of the balcony. His hands, with their long, clawed fingers, no longer play the pipes of Pan, but clutch a garland of ivy that is now just a faded shadow of its vivid green.
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His heart, once wild and free, has transformed into a heavy block of metal, filled with a deep melancholy. He longs for the reassuring rustle of leaves stirred by the wind, the intense scent of moss, and the sweet, secret melody of a flowing stream. Instead, he hears only the monotonous, incessant rumble of the city, the acrid smell of cement, and the cold, strange hiss of air conditioning.

​Motionless and alone, the bronze faun, a timeless ghost, remains contemplating his gilded cage. He waits, with a silent and futile hope, that one day, nature, with its irresistible call, will reclaim his dormant spirit and free him from this motionless, empty existence