Closed.

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✦ The springtime evident-pietism of nirvana, 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒊𝒄𝒔.

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Circumspect within the blazon of the flush bulwarks, lined up equal troopers in a crowd of angels, the tulips suffer in a row underneath the shade of the sacrosanct melody of the squabs. They inaugurate the beaut of the grandeur of heaven by coating the Goddess who constantly accompany them wheresoever they blooms. Here infantry glide into the sunbeams, bold elegance building their tunics, snowy with carmine lace. They are the squadron of cavalry cloaked in amber, wielding red swords thrown at the eyeball of a magenta batteries, every weaponry in their palace. They charged forward with the banderole fluttering spread with torches blazing, stepping out in time for some unheard-of speed marches. Their eyeballs are dead, they couldn't grab the tune in the army's pantomime parade. With their utmost potency, they hear the wind rushing through the springs bed. The pale landscape of spring will shine like a bright bouquet of flowers even though it floats far in the parian the village lies today. Lilac, bent over the years with purple burdens will hang; The bees will not forget the song their ancestors sang. Roses will blush on the red mountains of victory, daisies on the hills. Will not wither like gems under the heavenly light, they are the brilliant maidens. Their timeless fashion sets, and embellishments of the undeniable covenant gentian in this world. Until spring folds their magic, as women do on their gowns, or as priests adjust symbols when the sacrament is performed their flourish scents.
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