Daily Practice

Garden: Your love is like a beautiful rose, mine is like a tree. It grows till old does me death, though your thorns of love dies when seasons out. It is to be sprouted out for another admired sone. My leaves get sick and full foi agony. Crumbled branches die out of life. Now surronded by eevrything that is msierable and rotten. Falling into a deep slee, becoming part of my surronding , i dream. It as a garden where our love beganjust as seeds. This time you were the soil that i depended on. Till old did us death along with the love we had for life.