Bee of the flower

Come to the mist of the steppe, among the blue of purple, in which a beam of blind light tells of souls in the world. Wreaths of Time heroes - faith in miracles, stepped firmly into the stirrup knights without age and soul. These solid figures, carved in the rock, watch over people for centuries, as they descended from the saddles, of swirling, divine horses. In their eyes of stone and grass, shines the hope of the worlds. The sword stretched heavy shoulders, a blooming flower had blossomed. There seemed to have been a war! - in this corner, sunk in silence, desert wind was shining of knights of old times. And although the stone is silent, there is a ring of knightly armor and the sound of a horn in time rushes, then quieten in a strange echo ... Again you see stone eyes, staring at the hope of the ages and nothing that their mouths are silent, the sword there ... grow a flower!