Pixabay
In the eternal snow of the enchanted forest, the white tiger emerges, stealthy and sacred. His eyes of ice, his walk without sound, seem like a dream, a lost myth.
His fantasy in his glass skin, keeps secrets of an ancestral world, the owner of wind, time and cold, observes the moon from its dew. It is not a roar of anger, but a roar that enraptures, as if the spirit of the mountain were manifested in the piece.
His fantasy in his glass skin, keeps secrets of an ancestral world, the owner of wind, time and cold, observes the moon from its dew. It is not a roar of anger, but a roar that enraptures, as if the spirit of the mountain were manifested in the piece.