January 4, 2013


December, 26 MMXII

 from Unfinished story.

"Departed, chocked to death."

Ancients tell that flowers hide thousand secrets, many ways of speaking.
On a not so dark twilight she came again to the cemetery. This time that front of souls was in tribulation: a new arrival shattered their rest.
A faint and sensitive maiden came there, waiting for the Great Substance, so that she could reach the abyssal trifle.
This shining beautiful creature laid motionless, crystallized in the fog.
But as days pass by nobody appeared to pick her up.
Soon her rose-coloured fairness changed in a vague and pallid figure of what she was.
At the time, the Sensitivity showed up.

She was the black-dressed lady, forced to stroll forever in that lawn of death.
She carried a pure white flower. This flower was a little donation from the not-being for the endless beauty.
From that time the maiden lingers there as the given flourishing flower.

But she still waits, in this dream.

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