Paths meander through the drear landscape. In earlier time
lovingly attended, now lie they under gray dust and blowing
brown leaves. All paths, in good time, led to the garden gate,
its posterns now long whitened by blowing wind and sand.
Dry ditches, ground cracked, dust and sand stretch from the
broken gate. The gate, the fence - fallen, twisted, even as the
garden.
By day the sun burns harshly the once green grass. By night the
chill of winter coats each plant with killing frost. Gusting
winds tear and rip where once soft zephyrs blew.
In bygone days bloomed here red roses, and pink carnations. The
lilacs' fragrance, the soft beauty of the violets, the
brilliant yellow of the sunflower graced long ago this garden.
The bees hummed contentedly, and butterflies floated from
flower to flower. Gentle rains caressed the brilliant blossoms,
the verdant leaves. Dewdrops glistened on green leaf at
morningtide.
Of evening, sang the nightingales. By day, birdsong and happy
bird chatter filled the air. In vibrant colors warblers and
finches courted here, and yellow canaries darted from tree to
tree. Flying jewels, the hummingbirds, decorated the flower
gardens.
Always blue skies above, and soft caress of the warm sun. At
times, white clouds drifted softly, released the gentle rain.
The flowers opened wide, washed their bright faces in the
crystal drops. The falling moisture fed the myriad streams, and
cooled the noontime air.
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