Withered flowers on the windowsill,
Like the shadow of days gone by,
In their petals – frozen waves,
That vanish without a trace, like snow.
Life melts like a blossom in the sun,
That did not have time to fully bloom,
And every pause is tiny and delicate,
Like that whisper which took flight from a face.
Yet in their sorrow – there lives something bright,
That teaches us to value the moment and the breath,
For even withered flowers remember
The sweet ray of their existence.
Sweet Ray
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