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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…