Aeal

Wisteria

Light purple, like the scents of Heaven’s garden, enthrones the trailing stalks of green. Endlessly, a woven curtain of pale lavender bells dangles from the wall, bringing a little touch of night to the bright noonday feel of the air. Each cluster seems kissed by the stars themselves, made to wreath the sweat-laden brow of the sun, and with its vines lead it grudgingly home. So sweet, as if they could sing for joy and love of the sky, hinting at the essences of those other-worldly skies, merging deep inside the soil, deep down into the dark, moist earth, so to better reach that sky. They grow in the light of another world, another time, breaching two doors with a solid dream of blue. In times that might never have been, there is always a breath, a hint of pale ephemeral scent, that envelopes the soul with soft vanishing mist.

Do the words one utters before death tend to be truer, or can they be a lie?
--Subaru, X/1999