When flowers die,They die slowly—Edge by edgeThe petals curl,Still, silently,Without complaint. Unlike us,Cut flowersShould be let goBefore the firstTinge of death,While they areYet radiant inDeepest color. We, however,Must stay aliveLong , long pastOur first bloom—Till we haveCrinkled andBrutishly brownedWith excess time. Yet we have whatFlowers have not:Our love for themDies with them.Our love for ourBeloved…

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