Her smoke rises like a prayer, not to speak, but to listen. The pipe burns slow. The ancestors draw near
In the silence that dances between thorns and sand, the shaman walks — face to the wind, eyes carrying the echo of salt and songs stitched into his skin.
Panoramic view of Istanbul. Black and white
Yusuf runs headlong through the storm of wings, arms outstretched as if, in that fleeting rush, he might rise with them, not just chasing freedom, but becoming it.