December 18, 2012

When she weeps for what it has been lived, there is no God from the Netherworld who comes to comfort her.
When she tosses out and hit against the walls of her conscience, nothing comes out. A dark quiet and obscure and sweet.
Flowers withered by then spring back again from her eyes. To give birth to death, to create death from life.
And she lingers there, silent. 
She clings to them and she feels them like her children.
She breathes them and she feels like her mother.

Suddenly she leaves them, she eclipses and lets them spring, because her presence makes them fade.

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