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In this thriving, vibrant garden,
This strange and shadowy place,
Both life and death dance
With valiant, sordid grace.
In this ethereal domain,
That wears a material, corporeal face,
They dance through wind and rain,
Maintaining their relentless pace.
The flowers will all bloom,
And the gardner watches, waits,
Picking where and when to groom.
Cutting out the ones he hates…
Of course, in time each flower dies.
Each blooming flowers’ petals must
Yield their shape and color,
Withering, wilting, and turning to dust.
But death makes way for rebirth,
The garden surviving, if only just,
Flowers ceaselessly renewed,
By new blossoms’ thrust.
And so both life and death do dance
With valiant, sordid grace,
In this sparse, violent garden,
This strange and shadowy place.