If time were to be determined, it would now be around two o'clock at night, although here, in a place that is not named after any settlement and does not exist on any physical map, time does not exist, at least not in the sense that Earth man understands.
Here is a garden where the smell can be felt before anything else is seen. Here the air is not air, but a bouquet of ancient fruit trees, flowers, shrubs and earth. In the heat of the day, the trunks of dark fruit trees and the black, fertile land, which does not cool down until dawn, are all he has ever known. He and a few others who oversee every corner of the garden.
He has no name, but others know him as the one who flies the highest and sings the loudest, the reckless, the most passionate enthusiast of his highest task. We would say that he is a bird, but he really knows who he truly is, unlike us. The colors, right after the scent, are next to be noticed by the unaccustomed eye. Even the gentle songs of birds, the garden watchers, seem to be muffled when, during the sunset, the garden turns from golden orange to dark pink, in some places cherry red. The color seems to be not so much in the plants as in the air that vibrates between them, permeating the dimensions, one of which is called the scent.
What are the noble birds who live here in one of the most beautiful corners of the universe? Is there a danger here that seems to me, as a human being, to be an integral part of all the beautiful presence that seems to lurk in the shadows whenever beauty seems too beautiful to remain intact? They observe. The garden needs an observer. Scent needs smeller. And the watcher needs a garden in which to sing. Because where else is the loud song, intertwined with the scent of dark red, almost black roses and sweet, black berries, going to intertwine in one whole to linger between the layers of time and space in which we experience one right now?
Here, the reflection from the song of the bird and the totality of the wonder garden is caught in the air between the infinite dimensions, like a letter from the dark pink garden and its overseers.
Caught in the air, it is poured in wax and named Deep Garden. A garden that blooms beyond eternity, light and darkness.
May the garden of imagination always be as inexhaustible as the Soul itself.