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It is April and the whisteria’s flowers are almost gone
Only a few, lacey, lavender, old maids remain
Watching the azaleas fade away
Sighing as the dogwood’s petals are floating down
Settling onto the ground
Now is the time of the white flowers
Mongolia’s thick, cool, flesh is wet
Filigreed hydrangea shadows cast on the breeze
Star studded jasmine, spilling sweet perfume
Ringing the garden
Merging with a single note of pure, unending sound
Reverberations of medieval resonance
And, gothic grace

Out of the cold, still-wind of non-existence
Stirred by frozen, invisible rainbows
Without breath
Immovable halos
Rippling auras
Generated by memories of emotions
And, missing heartbeats
The ghosts who have shed their shrouds
And, tread a weary way
To here from yesterday
Are returning to see
If they are still remembered

Valeria Castellanos – April 2015

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