May arrives not with a whisper, but with a song. A wild one, ancient and layered, stitched with petals and flame.
This is the season of Beltane, where the earth’s desire reaches skyward in tangled green. Bonfires crackle on hilltops, summoning the old rites—union, fertility, the reckless beauty of becoming. On the darker edge of this revelry, Walpurgisnacht hovers, a mirror night of witches and whispers, where shadows walk with spirits beneath the turning moon.
Together, they are twin thresholds: one of passion, one of introspection. A marriage of heat and hush.
And in this in-between, the Four of Swords appears; not as an intruder, but as a sentinel. A still point in the wheel’s turning. A breath drawn in the midst of fire.
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