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I had a garden

Now I am the censor of my flowers

I went around with scissors cutting all the dried leaves

Flowers that did not bloom

Or the ones who insisted on drooping

And took with them the colors that should have stayed

In this mismatched garden

Hay color

That crackles in my steps

The sound of dry

I go on with sharp scissors

For there is no place for quitting flowers

It’s important to free their souls from their

Dead roots…


The statues sit quiet

And observe the cemetery

Frozen – no pain, no feeling

Just gray

Cement on my death

On my mourning

Angels with hard wings

Saints, Jesus, and God

Watching over the fence

Deciding who goes or stays

Final and concrete

Unlike this garden of statues

Won’t go anywhere

Will stay and watch over the souls

Of the people who built them

Who come and cry

And death decorate

With real flowers

Or plastic ones

But the color is always


What do I know about God?


except that God knows all about me

or maybe…

God spies on me when I sleep

and put dreams in me

and tells me the stories that should be told

when I follow that dream

or maybe…

God lets me be in my sleep

and watches me when I’m awake

but let me believe it is my doing

that keeps me going – sane or insane…

or maybe…

He is just changing channels

or playing with clouds

or is on a meeting with all angels and saints

about us – how to fix our disasters

how to go about so many petitions coming His way

or maybe…

God sits in silence

with eyes wide open – without rest

and doesn’t sleep

constant vigilance

He does tend to His flowers

But maybe – we became the weed…

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