White hydrangeas sip at drops of sky,
becoming azure blue just at their tips,
the sparrows flit and gently short beaks ply
at golden grass right where the cricket sits.
The songbirds carry on, for time permits,
singing of a vast and teeming space,
a garden cloaked in clouds, as light persists
a haven built by giants, and their race.
Though I still sample colours in this place,
long have I bored of the powdery blue,
and when I close my eyes I am amazed
by gardens mind can conjure, though untrue.
The hanging gardens wait up in the air
and if I could fly, then I would go there.
Spoiler! :
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