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There was that place
and the essence of ripe pomegranates
imagined in the flowers devoid of scent.
There was the colour, openly crimson, of the flowers
- and there was the tang, not confessed and green, of
the pomegranates that would be, seeping through the cracks
of time and falling into the substance, with petals ajar, of dream.
There was memory, drank in gulps of other colours.
And all of a sudden, there were two mouths and one sole breath
- and the pomegranates, bitten, ripe, in the flowers of imagined scent.
Sweet…
… Like the reinvention of that place.
