It was here, just the other day,
right before I was asked, to throw it away.
It had lingered and combined,
with these memories of mine,
subtle metamorphosis, per se?
I watched it bloom and it did grow,
roots! leaves! a bud! but you wouldn't know!
I imagined the flower it could be,
a flower which had been nurtured by me!
A new addition to that garden of mine,
in which were growing wild flowers divine.
beautiful little things, I fed them everyday,
they grew, they flourished, they withered away.
but you aren't much of a gardener you said,
'So what, if it was here? I'm leaving now, so shouldn't it be dead?'
It was here? was it not?
it seems to have been a passing thought.
In this labyrinth is locked away,
a voice taught to answer when I pray,
and ask 'if it ever existed, was it ever here?'
To silently whisper 'C'etait ici, monsieur.'