wild roses

Under this silly sun,
the Infinity itself has been hidden in the
unbearable beauty
of the lowly blossom of a wild rose
amidst thorns.

There is a world.

Somewhere to stand.

Somebody awaits me there.

I took thee to show where wild-roses grow.

I took thee to my garden of Eden.

That faraway garden of dream

of my dream of

What do I dream of when I see the faraway sense of roses?

I retire to quietude, to the quiet of the steps inside the walls of the imagined path.

That world is quiet. Before the breeze caresses the little twigs and leaves of that garden, the sun will not rise.

There is a gate.

Somewhere to enter.

Somebody is waiting for me there.

I take thee by hand and I lead thee each step by that garden path.

Behold, the time of the rose-blossom is nigh.

It is high time to wait for the pale blossoms to open amidst thorns.

I took thee by hand where the tall oaks stand, where the birches stand, bare.

I took thee to that faraway land of my garden.

I took thee to show how wild-roses grow in that furthermost corner.

There are flowers in that garden, thou knowest. There are flowers known only unto me. And I take thee by hand and I try to speak so that the names stick to you both.

I took thee to be named by all that grows around us.

I took thee to name all that comes our way.

The flowers mutter under breath. The faint breath of wind is audible and our talk discernible amidst the softness of noises in that faraway garden.

The flowers of that garden, they will name us according to their like or dislike.

There is a star.

Somewhere to look at.

Somebody sees it, too.

Thou takest me by hand and thy lips pronounce another plant. It is on blossom and thou callest them flowers. A word unknown to me no longer.

The flowers pronounce us as we pass them. They rustle and whisper expressing their memories of seedlings and later, the planting and growth, and


The Western wind explains the secret of the withered whitest rose.

How does one tell a garden, a garden of tale so real and so imagined.


Beyond the yards and walls, over the border-lines the song goes and takes over. It is the song that sings the flowers we encounter so by-passingly.

The song brings the garden to a halt and existence.

And then, in the faraway corner, the roses are.

We behold each other, and the gazes meet, and the autumn winds touch upon us as we look at each other. The summer is past, already and irrevocably.

I took thee to show where wild-roses grow;

The autumn was carrying petals with winds;

Too long did it take, to pass the gravel-clad path, to cross the wind-scented plots,

to hear our lot

from the lips of the flowers.

I still want to stand close at thy hand in that faraway garden created by song and sung by the winds when the autumn comes

and the flowers will allot names to us.

Names that will


There is a world.

Somewhere to stand.

Somebody is there to share it.

say something

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