The Inherited Gardener - 1985
Where can I run? What can I do? The scent of her still lingers where she passed me in the garden. What are magnolias to the fresh scent of her presence? Her skin, soft and delicate, shames the lily that grows by the mill. And her hair - her hair, though black like my own, is rich and all glisteny, like the raven in the meadow. Her laughter is innocent, like a child's laughter. And as she speaks, I just melt inside. So sweet - so pure.
Dear God...where do I run? What do I do?
She is white - and they will kill me if I speak.
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