Hangs black silk
the dark garden tresses
of something ancient
like the night falls
waves and cascades
spilling wet
down her back
Incense
makes the dark heavy
the air palpable
Her hair hangs
the generations
whose heads slept
in this garden
Ancient eyes of lanterns
knowing shadows
awake and alive
telling of old songs
deeds done for glory
and silk in its vivid colors
dripping down the time
weaving
in and out of moments
binding them
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