Saturday, March 12, 2016

Perfume Saint

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.

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