Deluge
A whisper at twilight, a sigh through the night, A strain of soft music, a perfume so light, Will sweep as a feather the bulwark of years, To surges of rapture, or rivers of tears.
Georgia Douglas Johnson
A whisper at twilight, a sigh through the night, A strain of soft music, a perfume so light, Will sweep as a feather the bulwark of years, To surges of rapture, or rivers of tears.
A tiny thing—a whisper at dusk, a familiar strain of music, a faint perfume—can suddenly undo all the emotional defenses someone has spent years building.
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