Wind ruffles her hair,

water cools her feet,

in her private party.

 

Nothing comes in,

nothing goes out,

of her secret garden.

 

There is plenty to see,

should someone open

gates that have been barred.

 

"Does elsewhere exist"

the maiden asks

her silent warden?

 

The world doesn't matter,

answers an echo,

while stillness hardens.

 

Things are the way they should be,

beyond the limits of humanity,

after reaching the era of plenty.

 

The whisper lingers;

this is the age of singularity,

when all the games have ended

in your victory.

Poem "The Secret Garden" by Lauri Lalli 2015; Picture done with Daz Studio and Octane Render.