Symphonica: Movement VII

There exists a secret garden. Where roses devour the deathly pieces of shadowed corners, a Cohen masterpiece. A place where symbolism grows in the half-lit spaces underneath the crumbling brick walls and where silence blossoms like tumoral flowers. Hallows and mosaics of dispersed weeds are in abundance, waylaying the footsteps of a god.
Buried keys feast within a archaic and pagan hullabaloo, an apotheosis of secrecy amid a carpet of burgundy soil. Sky-blue banners errupt from this imbrued field, only to whisper the arcana of the garden. And even as the Sun impregnates the etiolated air, it does but light the planted enigmas of a fearful child.

But let us not speak evilly of secrets, for they are the tears of God’s masters.