Thursday, March 10, 2016

The Garden

There is a garden. Hot red, green & blue.
Delicate hands care after the flowers. Rough ones look after the trees. You'd say those trees are small & young, but they grow into the land. Their roots rush to the pits of an unknown universe, icebergs to the eyes of the mass.
Three moons look at us from our sky: one gives us tenderness, the other one lights up desire, & the last one beats & pounds for our love.
When we sleep, ivy curls around our dead bodies. When the sun rises up, the smell of hydrangea caresses our senses.
Our bodies meet, energizing the garden: suddenly, flowers bloom. Colors come to life. On the peak of our mountain, the rythmic pounds of the hearts, make the land shiver. In the end, we provoke a little earthquake. Then, the calm comes. Music notes start to play. Even the criket stops singing now.
They know about the intimacy we share.
They want to share it with us. We make them levitate. We raise their world.
Our world.

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