Perhaps while any
poet can revive a wilted blossom or give the natural perfume of any flower to a
scentless one, it may take a true saint to seize the color of there seen from
here, the color of where we can never go, in which, without a word, the still here continues to flow into
the dull, rushing sound that space and silence make, its footprints appearing
as one unsleeping, ever pacing thought.
Or Maybe as the refreshing
fragrance of rose wafts strongly from the center of her palms, the perfume saint extends her
hands with a gesture of blessing which not even the flowers can touch. For as
each person’s personal perfume gradually evolves, satin and sparkling as
birdsong, if he or she will pause in the garden for long enough what is absent will soon
appear as vivid and nameless as a bird in-between windows, not able to get out,
yet not needing to.
I see what you mean.
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