In the dark, petals weave words that the day does not remember The language of flowers ignites only when the irregular steps of night call it forth They slide through leaves and trembling lights, like unfinished notes And every flower lets fall a voice that the sun rejects Then the language unveils itself, among dew and silent shadow When footsteps stumble upon the secret rhythm of the wind The garden learns to understand who we are, from the scent that delays blooming And the forgotten language finds a home in the rustle of roots