Revisionist Poetry – “Requiem of the Meadow” – Floral Intensities, v.5

In the dusk-field, the flowers rise
like pale devotions from the darkened soil,
their silken mouths half-open
to the secrets of the dying light.

The wind moves through them
as through a chapel of thin bones,
and each stem shivers
with the hush of something ancient
stirring beneath the earth.

Their colours are not bright now,
but deepened — blood-warm, bruise-blue,
the velvet tones of things
that bloom at the border
between splendour and mourning.

And their fragrance, faint and haunting,
drifts like a memory from another life,
as if the night itself had learned
to wear the scent of petals
and call it grace.

So they stand, these fragile lanterns,
in the gathering shadow,
beautiful as a vow,
mortal as a flame,
and solemn with the knowledge
that every bloom is already
leaning toward its own silence.