The garden of weeds

When I reach the path that leads astray,

I hear the sound of my heart's anxiety. It 's like she's crying.

It thunders.

The storm changes destiny.

And you can go so far as to no longer be bothered by light and blinded by darkness.

Where the originality of everything is manifested in its essence.

The music is played by birds.

Caressing the warm hands of the sun. We learn to fly in the arms of the wind. From the story of the star and the moon, we wear precious jewelry.

The red of the rose and the blood of our hearts and the sunset together are a picture full of harmony of the colors of passion.

Greens evoke hope.

The blue of the sky sings the song of truth and kindness in our throats.

And purple. Sometimes everything turns purple.

Purple is a reading of an old song that has faded over time.

The same color as the soul.

"I do not have a garden," said the coordinator of her garden violets, whose mother calls it a green cemetery. "I have weeds."