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The Blossom

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The flowers,

the scent,

That bouquet of recollection,

that fades with the dying of the days.

yet still our heart can sense,

as if that time could fill this desolate space.

And so I wish we could retouch those days,

that age,

those colours,

so vivid once again,

I recall that place so filled with the ghosts of poets,

and souls more visionary than I

Still past blossoms when memories fade,

from walls and paving stones,

and how we drank the soaking light,

meandering careless steps,

when for the moment,

the shadows of our days,

we dared forget.

With Simple Touch,

a sip of wine and sweetness on our eyes and lips.

The words, I think are lost.

Before the sunset,

before the shutters close,

before the night,

you are the blossom,

that weaves our tales from paths and walls,

that flourished and grew,

within our waking dreams.

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