Gardens of ancient years,
of seasonal endurance,
of high intelligence
and low mentality,
of humble charity
and proud obstinacy,
slaves of the sun and rain,
subjected to the elements,
bending under their authority,
breaking under their rage,
rejuvenated from the
flight of the pollen,
the riding with the
convalescent winds,
the sweet breath of life,
propagators of the fruits,
the restoration of the gardens,
the lore of life and
life’s longing for itself.
 
Beautiful flowers in their
eternal botanical palaces,
the handiwork of Mother Nature,
their never changing shapes,
flaunting their proud beauty,
shimmering in the rays of the sun
dancing with the summer breeze,
swirling their delicate skirts,
scattering a fragrance into the air,
blowing kisses to the beholders,
showing that beauty is conceited,
sensual, exhilarating to the eyes,
soothing to the heart,
and medicinal to the spirit.
’Tis the lore of the
flowers in full bloom.

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