Dead is saying bye. Life is blooming. A cuckoo bird visits the half-dead tree of my garden, every day. She coos to her fullest. I listen. I can hear her say, “Spring is here!” I listen. But I cannot feel. I like dry, dead, destructive fall. The harsh crunches of dry leaves under my feet, it’s musical.

It is spring now. The sky is burning with the last rays. The garden is a landscape painting with bright hues of red, yellow, orange, pink, blue. Different colours, different stories. One, two, three, four, five… five flower plants. One is for my master. Two is for the dame. Three is for the little boy. Four is for her. Five is for him. Each decked up beautifully. The manure was quite good. What’s best than human body? Rotting underneath with worms having a feast. The most beautiful garden!

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