the Zephyranthes blow in the wind
remembering nothing
wanting to be more than they are
crowded between fifteen other species
where four out of five of their flowers
are devoured
imitating compositae, somewhere between liliaceae and hippeastrum
invisible to the layman
I heard your secrets, so deep
Through the echoes
they reverberated as the ripples in a pond
crossed over the threshold in time
don’t say,
don’t speak,
I can see you.
I can see you for what you are.
Through you, I see the future.
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