Life is too short for boring stories

A delicate bud,
unseen, unnoticed,
should it stay that way
foreseeing the forces,
who slumbered in it,
until they awoke
since I unfolded,
and she with me,
my white orchid.

The petals,
one after another,
gently spreading
between the hills,
the sand-colored,
beseen, benoticed,
Revealing connecting
Proclaiming independence
me and you,
my white orchid.

The tempting goblet,
brimming with nectar,
sweet and beguiling
silky smooth skin,
strong the interior,
conscious, moving,
Self-determination alive,
Radiating self-confidence
from me and you,
my white orchid.

The subversive openness,
disempowered secrets,
was she in furtive,
I was in the outside,
Provoking indignation,
shameless, immoral,
and nothing else
as unbroken harmony
between me and her,
my white orchid.

The brute rigor,
to restrain
what did not know until now,
to defeat by force,
what was indomitable,
cut into shreds,
until the blood flowed,
White in red, soaking
my and hers,
my white orchid.

The tender cautiousness,
with whom you linked me,
gentle as the flapping of wings,
mindful as a butterfly,
you healed what was sore,
did you change what was red,
empathetic, caring,
did you want the strength,
for me and you,
my white orchid.

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