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'At the end of the journey/of my life/I will wait/for tears to spill/out of your eyes.'
This book is not about the happy endings of the flower that gives out fragrance to bless life. Nor would it make you feel cherished. It is a sadness, a soul that has died at people's hands, lovers, and friends. It talks in the language of flowers to remember the beauty of life, but it also reminisces how the bloomed blossom withers, hence the tussle between living and surviving.
It is a longing that doesn't end, neither with love nor by being alone. It is a longing that was gifted to wait until death comes snatching for it.
The tendency of a human to love, an emotion that outlives death, is somewhat a slow death; in minutes, it comes, and for years it lives by inhaling the life out of flowers and us and leaves us hanging or fallen by the tree.