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Hj, my heart is indiscreet. Hj, I count 1 secret.1 garden secret ... Your flowers do not come from seeds. They are not planted. They are woven with passion and zeal for us. 2. And they are made from time. The buds, leaves, petals, stems, thorns, are solitary instants that do not mean much, but we gather them and transform them into unexplained perfumes and unheard colors. Vc cerze these moments that I collect in words (other times, we change positions because we are like this: we want to feel and understand what we do and why we do, so flowers are never the same). And time crystallizes in sharpness and softness. In recollection and extravagance. Flowers grow on distances and absences and joys and affection. Flowers grow with us and we grow there. And, only there, there are the seeds: WE 2. And we germinate. From 1 garden time lush we made p flourish and be bigger! Ps: vcs, readers, do you know who they want to reach out to at the end of the world? I know. THAT was the little miracle of the night!

A few days ago I came across a poem that sent me strongly to Our Garden. Intelligent, sensual, instigating, engaging ... and with a peculiarity of ours. Only OURS! With my eyes half-shining, glistening and overflowing with soul charm, with a smile of complicity stamping my face and my heart flooded with heat, I transcribe it on my mural as if it were a letter addressed to you: "My lips / They play their flute / and they extract notes of pleasure! / The melody is perfect! / How much harmony: / me and you! / The flute / fits in / in the mouth, / how it has to be! Your flute is sweet, / and even if it were not, / would taste / taste it! / The notes will spill out / one by one / And your flute ... / take as / a feather! "I can feel from here your heart popping with enthusiasm and your soul vibrating with rejoicing and warmth!