By Evan Pausic
speak the language of flowers
remember when your mother’s hand
touched your sickly forehead
the world watches
and is blind
I can see the top
a snow capped mountain
we only know the outlines
of what we see
I see the flower
in fire on the terrace
I see the flower
shining in your eyes
I see the flower
in the mind’s blackness
I cannot say what it is
it is in bloom
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