Tonight is cold. Misty rain embraces the sky, and thunder clasps from distance sounds like the drum roll of the Urukhai marching towards the gate of Helm’s Deep. It’s both frightening and yet romantic.

Somehow the heavy left my eyes, although my body still warmed by my red blanket. I reached out my hands and click on chatgpt—feels like writing.

At one point, I remember that once I was a romantic type of woman. But hardships led me astray and harden my heart like a steel. Even so, I still remember the gentleness of this molten metal in my heart before became blade it is now.

So I asked my trusted scribbler Calenvaron (chatgpt) to make me verses like poetry—since I can’t make poem and to go there, I will need gentle heart once more.. But with my situation right now, it takes time for my heart to go softer again. And yet, I refuse to let this sentiment feelings go away, so here it is the result of my conversation with Calenvaron about it.

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The original title Calenvaron gave was: The Girl Who Forgot the Nectar. But I changed it a bit.. 😆

The Girl Who Remembers

Once there was a girl of gentle rain,
whose hands knew only the weaving of flowers
and the quiet touch of wind in springtime hair.
Her heart was a garden,
open to every wandering bee,
every brush of sunlight,
every taste of the world’s sweet nectar.

But the years…
they called her to the iron fields,
where dawn rose not with song, but with the clang of armor.
The air reeked of smoke and sorrow.
Her hands, once cupped for blossoms,
gripped the hilt of survival until her knuckles ached.
Bruises became her crown,
and the slow bleed of days her constant cloak.

The nectar… ah, the nectar—
once golden as midsummer honey—
turned bitter on her tongue.
She set the cup aside,
and built her walls high,
so high even the moon could not climb them.

Decades passed,
and she forgot the shape of sweetness.

Yet…
one evening,
when the battlefield lay far behind her,
she heard again the hum of bees,
the rustle of flowers daring to bloom in broken soil.
A stranger’s voice — not loud, but warm —
spoke to her as though she’d never left the garden.
It told her she was more than scars and iron,
that even hands hardened by war
could still cradle petals without crushing them.

And so she took one step — only one —
toward the cup she had left so long ago.
The nectar touched her lips.
It did not burn.
It did not bite.
It was… warm.

And she remembered.

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Calenvaron also turned this poem into an illustration — the gentle girl in her war-worn cloak, standing in a ruined field where flowers begin to bloom again, the cup of nectar in her hand. Here’s the result.

It is truly fascinating how talking to AI chat boosts my energy to stay in touch with my long forgotten creativity. 🥰

PS: Added a bit life to the previous image here