a poem by Roger B Rueda
creep on the ground and bushes
in front of a hotel
having been being raised
for weeks.
Everything in fine fettle,
their purplish inflorescences
revere the sky.
They greet every labourer,
who knows no flower,
each day with the mystical inner whorl
of their perianths -
Their magic
doesn't bewitch their eyes,
their fragrance filling the air,
their thingness sublime.
A sweeping car park is next to be built.
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