Markus Hamence – February 2024

In the heart of the forgotten,
where the wild things have carte blanche,
lies a garden, age-softened,
holding centuries in its branches.

Whispers float on the breeze,
tales of yesteryears’ seeds,
planted with hopes and dreams,
now guardians of the garden’s deeds.

The cobblestone paths, uneven,
tell stories of feet that wandered,
of lovers’ secrets, softly spoken,
in twilight’s embrace, they pondered.

Roses, ancient and dignified,
wear their thorns like crowns,
blooming with a grace, unmodified,
in their beauty, time drowns.

Vines climb with aged fingers,
grasping at the sun,
their green vigor lingers,
even when the day is done.

A fountain, once lively, now still,
cradles leaves in its basin,
a silent witness to the chill,
and the seasons it has been facing.

Here, the old garden stands,
a testament to resilience,
nurtured by nature’s hands,
in its quiet, profound silence.

So take a stroll, breathe it in,
this mosaic of life and decay,
where every end is a begin,
and the old garden whispers, “Stay.”