The roses hold the moonlight, the memory of it. The blush of their hues like a tale now easily told among sisters.
Among the sisters and what they whisper.
If you tell me, if that could be its way, one to another, but mouth to mouth, word to word there is a change, subtle but real.
Know that some things are made beyond the reach of words and must be understood in the heart, in the blood, deep within the very marrow. Not spoken, but known. It goes beyond belief. It is what is.
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