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Báo cáo lỗi dịch thuật
To be whisked away like your favourite cake batter
Why gardens? Why the pleasant little worlds we create?
I think, as my aged brush touches the canvas:
It is an art that continues blooming
Its beauty shines and we share it gleefully with amiable friends
Share your flowers with friends, strangers,
And the one safe in your heart
For your heart to them is home;
A warm sunrise that brings comfort to the chilly nights ahead
To become the ocean requires strength
But it is a treasure full of history, secrets, and the unknown
For others, it is vast, cold, or warm
A beautiful blue sea that is home to all
It hugs the world and nourishes our soil
We ourselves are made of water
As each day that goes by,
Let’s appreciate the ocean, the nails, and the rest of this world
For everything thrives on appreciation and kindness
Including art painted from a wonderful mind.
I'm in my own world again,
Lost, releasing my inner peace
A sanctuary devoted to fine hours
I fade . . . I sink, I tremble;
My icy breath submits to solitude
Dark brown eyes fear the forbidden light
I detail to friends of enlightened evenings,
Wry smiles all around, familiar wrinkles
I'm aging, but I am no flower
With every bloom, each plant remains youthful
But the seasons are not kind to me
Instead, I'm vanishing as the seconds pass
Stumbling, careful not to crush the daisies
Distant doves coo to fill the silence
. . . it's quiet here . . .
. . . remember the birds and the light . . .
. . . free yourself from the egg . . .
Nestled warmly away from any harm
Peace envelops my aching mind
Those knees pleading for rest
Palms pressed together,
Harmonies hummed in union,
I repeat each dream
Gaze as its innocence in my hands
And follow the painted shadows
Guiding me oncemore
. . . be kind to yourself . . .
. . . there's only peace here . . .
. . . regain consciousness . . .
"To the light, to the light," it exclaims
The merit of confusion rattles my brain
Out of curiosity, I dip my fingers into cold liquid
Signing my name, revealing a whirling portal
Do I enter, borrowing the values that stimulate
The cage above my eyes? I think I will
A plethora of scents whisper sweetly to me
As I become a stained glass window
Reflecting the wisdom stored in my heart.