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In Pristina, a green vase sings from a table left standing
A white chaliced tulip, orange-crowned daffodils butter and honeycupped, the perfume of narcissuspetal fanned, these are vowels in God's own language. In such soundslove tenders itself to nearly a millionrefugees, the children, and echoes backamong the rocks and camouflage as a voice asking, What have you done?A lone cellist's bow gently drawnon and over a world's heart still singsa song with no clash, no consonants.
Amid rubble flowers want to bloom.It rains. Gardens obey and grow.