Gravy, weighty and salient seasons of my book were crinkled,
blended into the vast expanse of reflective tones and the disposition of melodies.
Its resulting picture appeared unclouded
and had the comprehensive idea of yenning, which was trying to settle in!
In compliance with the process of its preparedness,
I tried to learn and memorize the outlook of your tending silence.
The mounting serene of its stilling effect mirrored the appearance of vivid flowers,
those clasped to your hands and luckily permeating their conformable scent.
O prettifying silence and the causative quickener behind it,
I want the remnant of my voice to occupy your attention by posing a simple question.
Is it hard to hold the flowers with your hands?
Do I hurt you with its sharp-pointed edges?
Sad, in this reposeful composition. I pricked you.