While the world wasn’t looking,
the stones learned to weep,
and the ocean—that old blue beggar—
knelt down to drink its own salt.
While the world wasn’t looking,
the vines twisted into alphabets,
spelling the names of the forgotten—
each letter a green, grasping hand.
Love—they were whispering love—
not in the tongue of men,
but in the slow dialect of roots,
in the patient hunger...
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