As nimble as the first steps of a baby,
The flower of my passion, seemed to grow.
Never did it threaten to wilt or wither,
Always carried with it insurmountable glow.
Not one could trace its germination,
Not one could mark its rapid growth.
Its mellifluous laughter danced gleefully
on its delicate, white petals. Elegance.
The serenity in the heart of that flower,
I wish I could carry within my own heart.
The tempest of death would be driven away!
And the flowers of mirth would meet their bloom!
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