In the Garden of the Weed, the Princess is the one who lay below with tears in her eye. Tears dropping to the earth, spreading as one, bringing the earth its grain of humanity. Its earth has none of the same except to be its own. The tear is as one, as one will ever be. Purified by the Garden, one into one is the same. Purity in its own is the way it's going to be.

She is a weed in the middle of a beautiful rose bush. Sometimes, she feels like a mouse in an elephant herd.

Or like a key that won't work on a piano. An outcast. Just a weed.

Not that much outer physical prettiness, but wonderfully festive and beautiful on the inside. Everyone wants to pick her and throw her away, because she doesn't fit in, there in the bush of roses. No one wants her in there, because they're afraid her roots will spread wide and choke the roses.

Purity in its own is the way it's going to be.
Purity in its own is the way it's going to be.

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© 1998 by Gina Paiz

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