Before a shrine of orchids, in the dead of winter
Few voices are astir and cling
To the tatters of life

Their words tread softly, so withered and bare
Seldom spared
In a calm and gradual whisper

All their melodies coalesce
And glide through the morn
Through procession’s of black
To the lone dark grave
Once a far away and nightmarish fate

The orchids prevail, in the dead of winter
As a prelude to spring
Where all death ushers life, into great swaths of green

From the cold dark ground
Where the quiet are sown

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