she's still, among an overwhelming fragrance

‎(garden exhales the heat and fumes of flowers)

‎upright like she was turned to salt or tower,

‎like antithesis of relaxing on a bench.

‎beneath the whispering leaves

‎pale skin aglow with dance of light and shadows,

‎her thoughts move freely from the depths to shallows,

‎in quiet resonance she's engulfed by salty wind.

‎the many-winged one blows through serene view

‎from luminous sun-scorched cliffs

‎to sea waves' blue,

‎creating music that embodies melancholy,

‎calls for a times so ancient and bucolic

‎they've been undreamt of for millenia or a few.

‎dry blossoms fallen and forgotten in her hair - he blows away them not.

‎let beauty be adorned.

‎slow time and heart continue in concord

‎and to her fingers clings familiar scent of blood