Truly the nascent flowers play,
upon the treads...the narrow grooves of imagination ,
scattered on the supple winds,
in colors, reminiscent of banners swirling in the breeze...
It's quite sunny now, a heavy warmth felt on the tops of weary heads,
maybe noon...
the procession tramples on, over cobble reminders...
not yet broken in two, the eye's have it -
yes, we're all dressed in that blank canvas...
all faces in union, remembered to the blue skies,
tears down an alpine nose...
I place a flower upon the years I've been alive,
and the the rest in the grave...
Let's just rest by this stone,
a bottle of wine and wheel of cheese,
celebrate the divinity of our being...
because you don't really know when it's all for keeps.
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