Flower


Flower

Nourished by rain and dew
She has her own garden.
Her dream where wind blows
Embraces her barren body.
She is not just pretty and frail
She is pure, she is jade.
She leaves traces in the scorching sun.
Her voice is sonorous colour.
She is a late blooming flower
On an exposed mountain ridge.
There are wildfires in her pupils,
A temptation cursed.
A mystery in the nerves 
Of each dark hour reveals 
The sea thousands of miles away.
She inherits what is running 
In your blood, or part of it.
She will become 
A heavenly song of the milky way, 
Guided by a devine power, 
Lead by the sound of water, 
An ancient language,
A new beginning.

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