secrets

when we were little girls we didn't watch tv. 
not, really. 
we played with paper dolls, ate mountains of loucoum à la rose
and we had secrets.
secret was a small hole in the ground, hollowed out with our bare hands. 
first of all, you needed to pick up the loveliest flowers and find a piece of broken window pane. 
ni vue, ni connue  you buried the flowers in the pit you had prepared, put the shard on the top without cutting yourself and immediately covered it back with soil.
you shared your secrets exclusively with your best friend. 
sometimes you were betrayed and your secret unfolded. 
at other times it simply slipped your mind and was lost for ever.
 If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear to man as it is, infinite.
through Paulina's windows of perception, i can see it all again.
filthy handed little girls in summer dresses never get old. 
flowers never moulder under a glass in a tiny, nameless grave.
neighbour's dogs never pee on your secret. 

'secret gardens' by Paulina Teter. 

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