There was a soft sound, almost a whisper on the window. It was dark with a little brightness in between the violet clouds, as the crescent challenges them and tries to appear and enlighten the night.
The small whisper called again. She headed towards the source, opened the window to be draped with that oh so beautiful fragrance of the small white flower. She touched the calling leaves scribbling on the damp glass words and words, lines and lines of an old story.
She traced the lines, to hear the notes of the whispering tree, the smiles of the playful breeze, and to move with the movement of a graceful dance.
She looked at the figure that came to inspect the noise " your Lemon Tree is telling me your story"... " your Lemon Tree is tracing your love, and is dancing with your grace and elegance"...
"your Lemon Tree, is whispering in almost a scream, your hidden scream"
The Lemon Tree scribbled, nodded and danced the night with her breeze.
It was almost a whisper, it was almost a scream.
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