The name of the flowers, some I remember, some I forget. Yes, tell me one. I like to hear that. I may have forgotten again.
We feel eager desire to make it ours, making the flowers ours by naming them. But they stay their own and it does not become our truth.
We live with it; we live with otherness as strangers live together in crowds.
Flowers, I know you, not knowing your name.
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