In the timeless skies between realms, where the fabric of dreams and dharma intertwine, Lord Vishnu soared—not astride Garuda, as told in ancient tales, but upon an immense, celestial owl. Its feathers shimmered like starlight and silence itself, a symbol of wisdom and mystery. The owl glided effortlessly through the twilight ether, its eyes glowing with ancient sight.
High
above the sacred mountains and whispering forests, a fawn floated in the air,
suspended not by wings but by a radiant aura—innocence incarnate. It drifted
gently, as if cradled by a divine current, its eyes reflecting the cosmos, its
breath mingling with the winds of destiny.
Beneath
this celestial vision, emerging into the foreground of existence, was a human
hand—elegant and still, reaching upward from the earth. Upon the palm rested a
golden orb, pulsing with subtle light like a captured sun or the karmic seed of
all creation. Beside it bloomed a single lotus bud, yet to unfurl, holding
within it the promise of awakening.
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