Dry and sere it lies. Where once beauty bloomed, weeds and
briars grow, as grow untrimmed bushes once flowering plants.
They flower not.
Paths meander through the drear landscape. In earlier time
lovingly attended, now lie they under gray dust and blowing
brown leaves. All paths, in good time, led to the garden gate,
its posterns now long whitened by blowing wind and sand.
Dry ditches, ground cracked, dust and sand stretch from the
broken gate. The gate, the fence - fallen, twisted, even as the
garden.
By day the sun burns harshly the once green grass. By night the
chill of winter coats each plant with killing frost. Gusting
winds tear and rip where once soft zephyrs blew.
In bygone days bloomed here red roses, and pink carnations. The
lilacs' fragrance, the soft beauty of the violets, the
brilliant yellow of the sunflower graced long ago this garden.
The bees hummed contentedly, and butterflies floated from
flower to flower. Gentle rains caressed the brilliant blossoms,
the verdant leaves. Dewdrops glistened on green leaf at
morningtide.
Of evening, sang the nightingales. By day, birdsong and happy
bird chatter filled the air. In vibrant colors warblers and
finches courted here, and yellow canaries darted from tree to
tree. Flying jewels, the hummingbirds, decorated the flower
gardens.
Always blue skies above, and soft caress of the warm sun. At
times, white clouds drifted softly, released the gentle rain.
The flowers opened wide, washed their bright faces in the
crystal drops. The falling moisture fed the myriad streams, and
cooled the noontime air.
Rivulets flowed with delicate tinkling sound amidst the
flowers. In the clear waters darted fish of brilliant hue, red
and gold. Here grew the waterflowers along the bank, and
watercress.
A pond there was, cool water where swam the ducks and wild
geese. From time to time awkward goslings there swam, and
ofttimes the graceful swan.
Growing there, also, the pure white beauty of the waterlilies.
Their beauty hid a message of foreboding. A message, by the
Gods' grace, that Persephone could not read.
Here dwelt peace and tranquillity, rest from toil, relief from
care.
Here walked, with gentle grace of fawn, Persephone in happier
days. The beauty of the flowers faded in comparison to her
beauty. Bright eyed, smooth skinned, lips the color and softness
of the rose petals she added beauty to the already beautiful.
The happy chatter of the birds was lost in the happy laughter of
this child. Here she tended her flowers with loving care,
dreamed the dreams of youth - and blissfully knew nought of the
trials to come.
Bird music filled the air, each performer more talented than
the other. Nature painted the garden with hues beyond man's ken.
Persephone danced in joy beneath the warm sun, sang with the
birds.
Ceres watched with happy smile, her daughter.
Yet felt the chill of premonition.
Such was the Garden of Persephone.
And that, long since.