Flowers, withering without water. Drying, dying, none to care. Petals dropping, one by one, Dying, drying, abhorrent, uncared. The slightest breeze and several fall Dried, died, yet still fragrant. Their perfume fills only the imagination. Reality is the smell of stagnation. The aroma of death, By midday sun or moonlit night They fall, dead, dry, …

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