Under boughs of that heady scent
kneeling branches of blue-haze bloom
a chill from the beyond has bent
Time and Space into deep gloom.
Within that plutonian oubliette,
a prison of air, where people forget,
spirits wander in a floating repose
under the land where Hydrangea grows.
But when mists rise in the early morn
beneath this maze of mystic loam
those spirits lost  and forlorn,
follow the white path to their celestial home.

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