Yesterday, a Monday morning,

the day the flowers died.

Maria cried,

I felt a shiver down my spine,

and a melancholy wind,

color is the blood of the angels,

they sang their mournful songs.

The flowers withered, turned black,

soon a blanket of white,

the winter pasture,

stirring and proud in it’s own way,

stirring beneath the gray clouds.

Life is filled with crisis and mystery,

every minute,

every day,

every season.