Some flowers stay on to sleep in peace with death on graves, gravestones. Some dance with the wind and shine with the sun to lose their foothold and fall to the ground. Some dream of being buds, drenching in rain, soaking a bit of the sky stay a little longer. Some stand like pillar in a lover's grip allowing love to bless or reel in dejection. A few crown the beauty of maidens on earth adding eyes to passers by or touching a lover's heart.

Daily Dipolog Glimpses by Rosemarie Miranda The heavens are generous today. They opened the floodgates and poured out droplets of graces to quench the thirst of parched lips of the earth perfect timing for the farmers' chores no need to water the budding plants filling the rice paddies with its wants. God as always knows the desires of the hearts of mere mortals. © 09/21 Photography courtesy of Rosemarie Miranda

Written by Lucky Stephen Onyah In the ambiance of divine lights spurn the wheel of life streams. Thousands of voices did echo from realms beyond earthly ties. Finer are words in hues - shades apt symbol - figurative gestures. Tale of hidden mysteries unfurl unveil - manifest before all eyes. No sooner came pale shadows screech with effused presence. Disturbed but could not prevail the overwhelming light beams blur fear of death that enslave of men captured in darkenss corrupting souls that so yield. This song so tuned, played on but not anymore, it grips hold for divine influence outshines, repels its humiliating darkness. Both kept on in disagreement for humanity is within divinity. Bask on with radiant spectrum for light wins darkness, always. © 09/21

Written by Alby Raymond Parackal Cardinal virtues for human life from indivdual, Carefully designed, developed as it's universal. Care about human rights, values be subliminal, Carried along with human experience, juridical! Career in homo-sapiens on birth to death deal, Commonly sense familiar terms of living vital. Committed to family, its surroundings natural, Carried forward in life from times immemorial! Casual transactions in aberrations of normal, Casually creates casualties as well abnormal. Casuistry of human souls with hearty rational, Categorically cater to solve amazing ethereal! © 09/21

"Snack Time" "Sustenance" "Florals" "Nature's Tears: Dew Drops" "Nature Photography of Dhananjay Jagtap" DHANANJAY JAGTAP is from Maharashtra, India. He completed his engineering back in 2017. He works in the corporate sector. He loves cooking, reading, photography and exploring nature with his camera. He will be featured again, in Issue # 5, November/December Edition of ILA Magazine. Email Contact: dkjagtap17@gmail.com All writers and artists who submit to ILA, retain their copyrights to their work, Reproduction of any kind is prohibited without the express written permission of the copyright holder.

Written by Jaspal Singh Rana Some conversations and images stick in your mind, and they make you wise, too. I had a very profound conversation with a man last year. It was a Sunday afternoon. I was feeling grouchy, lonely and irritable. Things had not been going well at work. My savings were running low, and I had been complaining incessantly. I was turning into a chronic whiner. 'I am tired, I have had enough of it. All this running around, these frustrations of everyday life.' I roared while flopping on to the sofa. 'Why don't you go out for a walk.' My wife suggested in her dulcet voice. I glanced at my watch. It was five o'clock. I did not want to spend another evening at home wallowing in self-pity. Weaving my way through the sputtering auto-rickshaws, whooshing scooters, trundling handcarts and ramshackle buses that puffed out clouds of billowing black diesel smoke, I reached a narrow stretch of road that runs parallel to the Ganges. It is a place where most people come to stroll, pray or spend some quiet time. As I started strolling, I saw a man who was playing the tambourine and singing a Bhajan. An old man was sitting on his haunches and selling trinkets, while near him, food hissed and simmered in a pot mounted on a makeshift low 'challah' lit by firewood. I struck up a conversation with the old man. 'How much do you earn?' I asked. 'On a good day, I make about two hundred rupees.' He answered. 'How do you manage?' I asked probingly. 'I am happy with whatever Ganga Ma gives me.' I was astonished to hear him speak like this because in my infinite wisdom, happiness and money were synonymous. 'I am happy because I have so much to thank for.' He said, while pointing to a limbless beggar who was sitting nearby. I never feel unhappy just because I earn less. Happiness is a state of mind; you can be happy if you count your blessings and not troubles. Life is never going to be perfect. You want to be happy or miserable, it is your choice. Happiness is inside us. You seek happiness as if it were a thing hidden from you. You can seek more, but you should also feel happy and show gratitude for what you have.' His words stirred something in me. I realized that I had so much, yet I was miserable. He was right, I had not been counting my blessings. I had forgotten to weave the thread of gratitude in the fabric of my life. It had been a long and meaningful conversation, the sun was setting, but my spirits were soaring. I closed my eyes, and a sense of gratitude started flowing through my heart. I looked at the evening sky and mumbled, 'Thank you, God.'

Written by Sai Prakash Oh! Dear, my child, how pretty you are, like a swan in a pristine pond. Your wings of freedom, you can expand and fly, to the farthest lands of your wish. Exploring the skies, with avian eyes your vision a bird's eye view, wider and precise I saw your grim face today, when you were looking into the mirror. My dearest child, wait till it is night, let the moon appear in the dark skies. The loveliest of God's creation, carries the wildest of scars on her face. A celestial object that enthused all the bards on Earth writing lullabies of love, splendor and faith, it is your nature that matters, not the scars on your face. Be merry and rejoice in what God gave you, with Grace. Oh! My Princess, you are your Mama's priceless gift, in you, she sees her face. © 2021

Zia Darakshan It is an irony that conflict zones never find place in the imagination of a poets poetry, but it can duly accommodate in his obituaries boldly inscribed on the graves, (along with the date of birth and reason of death), surrounded with rows of purple and golden daffodils carelessly sprout beneath the graveyards. Everything here is shadowed by the pessimistic side of life that tells a tale of sorrow and grief, be it air, water, seasons, music, chirping of birds, wavering of paddy fields. Every move giving out the fear of unknown, every eye bleeds, every chest beaten to knock the locked doors but it does not open the frozen doors. The atmosphere of such places is engulfed with a strange kind of silence as if announcement of tsunami anytime. The seasons come and pass without letting anyone know about their arrival and departure. When winter clothes come out of the closet and when they get dumped back in closed trunks for next season, similarly when rain coats and cotton wear cover our naked bodies and when they again land in closets, one hardly gets to know. Its only when the skin dries up and moisturizes back, perhaps it gives a clue about the change of the season. Locked behind the concertina wires, these people watch similar dreams. Roaring of guns, bombs and bullets and encounters. Children here don’t play rugby or cricket, but they play war games where they make artificial battle ground and fire with wooden sticks disguised for guns. Mornings and evenings here are different. First ray of morning doesn’t announce the arrival of a new day but it makes its way through the old and frail wrinkles of those hopeless eyes that cry for yet another disappointment. Likewise, as the sun hides leaving behind the gloomy orange color, it tells the tale of a caged bird caught by the cruel hunter. While as flowers and fruits do bloom here, but they lack fragrance, the essential quality, neither do they freshen up our five senses nor do they excite our appetite. They smell of some burnt gasket or chemical that only brings tears down our eyes. This world is devoid of any color, since this world is not familiar with colors, the only color known to this miser world is the color of red rose. Although red is characteristic of flowers, but here it represents as identification of each door and window,just like the ink spilled/drenched from the pen of an obituary writer. The water here also has a different effect (taseer)on the throat. The more you are thirsty, the more you desire to quench it. Nevertheless, to say a drop of water is enough to moist the throat. However, even if you drink water in gallons or whole ocean the water will stuck on throat like a thorn of cactus wildly grown in a desert. My early years of childhood never saw conflict around. I was lucky enough to have a happy childhood. I always had small dreams like any other child of my age. But then, I grew up so did my dreams, I opened my eyes when I was conscious enough to recognize conflict around me. Whenever, I recollect my early childhood memories I get rejuvenated like a second life after death. My best memories still haunt me, not like a witch or a demon, but like Ah! Those were the days. Author Bio: Zia Darakshan is journalist from Srinagar Kashmir with over a decade of experience in newspaper, electronic and cyber journalism. She is Engaged in giving concept and writing script for television and radio ad for corporate sectors, also into documentary making.

With the tip of her index finger, Rosalie traced the fall of a large snowflake in the condensation on the windowpane. The trail she made on the glass curved, circled, and swooped as the flake danced on the breeze. Small rivulets of water ran from the trail and down the window and collected along the bottom of the window frame. As more flakes fell, she tried to follow them on their descent using other fingers on both hands until the glass was practically clear of the condensation and the trails. She leaned her forehead against the cold window and formed quickly fading misty figures of butterflies and unicorns on it with her warm breath. Beyond the window, the plowed, bare dirt that made up the back yard, encircled the house like a moat. On the other side of the moat, the dead brown prairie grass lay matted against the earth like a haphazardly woven blanket. The grassland stretched to the horizon where it met a gray cloud-cluttered sky. Canadian geese flew in a V-formation high above the ground, forming the outline of an arrowhead that pierced its way through the wintry clouds. Very slowly, the landscape became dusted with glistening white snow that stood out in contrast to the dull colors of the prairie. Sitting back in the rocking chair, Rosalie wiped the water from her forehead with the edge of her purple knitted shawl and then pulled it tight around her frail shoulders. She pulled her bare feet up from the floor and rested them on the edge of the seat and covered her legs with her long, brightly colored floral dress. She pushed her long brown hair back from her face, wrapped her arms around her knees, tilted her head back, and watched the snow fall until she fell asleep. Awakened a short while later by the sound of her husband's heavy footsteps on the hardwood floor in the kitchen, she wiped away the fresh sheet of condensation that had formed on the window using her sleeve. The prairie had become carpeted in white. "What are you doing?" her husband said to her as he came into the room, bringing the moist aroma of snow with him. It was on his boots and melting quickly, making a puddle on the floor. "Just watching the snow fall," she said. "It's so pretty." "It's piling up fast, " he said. "This kind of snowfall so early in the year is unusual." He crossed the room and placed his big hand on her shoulder and squeezed it affectionately. His hand weighed on her shoulder like a large rock. "You shouldn't spend all of your time moping around," he said. Wincing, she tolerated his hand that felt like a vice-grip. She watched a mound of snow rise up and twist and whirl like a miniature tornado until it formed the shape of a deer. She was about to point it out to her husband, but it disappeared back into the snow as quickly as it had appeared. "I'm not moping," she said. He removed his hand and shoved it into his coat pocket. "Spending so much time in this room isn't healthy." "This is the baby's room," she said. "There is no baby. Not anymore," he said. The sudden appearance of a buffalo formed from snow at the border of the yard caused the words she wanted to say to get momentarily stuck in her throat. As the buffalo disintegrated into a flurry of flakes that was carried off by the wind, she said, "There will always be a baby." "I'm going to take a shower before dinner," he said. With the weight of his hand lifted from her, she gripped tightly to the armrests of the chair in fear she would float into the air. "Okay." As he walked out of the room, she said, "Roger, I was born to be a mother." Turning to the window, she watched a small wave of drifting snow turn into a flock of glimmering white terns that rose into the sky and then descended back into the snow. She pressed the palm of her left hand on the window and spread her fingers, then lifted her hand and stared wondrously at the snow angel-like imprint left in the condensation. Unfurling her legs and rising out of the chair, she looked around the room. The walls were painted a bright pink with white trim. On them were images of fairies, fairy-tale princesses, and an array of animals: giraffes, monkeys, zebras, and pandas. Swans lined the wall beneath the trim on every wall. Thick cotton ball-like clouds with cherubs playing among them covered the ceiling. The small dresser, changing table, and baby crib were painted white. Plastic kittens and puppies hanging on a mobile attached to the head of the crib dangled over a light pink silk pillow. She walked to the crib, leaned over the rail, and scooped up a doll with long curls and big brown eyes, wearing a pink satin dress, pink socks, and white shoes. She cradled the doll in her arms and rocked it gently while softly cooing to it. Carrying it to the window, she held it close to her breasts and stared out at the prairie being blanketed with snow. On the edge of the yard, hares made of snow in many different sizes danced among the snowdrifts. Bright moonlight made the clouds glow in the night sky. The crystals in the snow glittered like diamonds strewn across the landscape. Rosalie stood at the sink in the kitchen and looked out the window and smiled as snow-formed prairie dogs popped in and out of the snow like jack-in-the-boxes. She couldn't hear them, but they appeared to chatter and bark at each other as they sat upright on their hind legs at the rim of the holes they had dug in the snow. "What are you doing up so late?" Roger said from the doorway. "It's so beautiful out there," she said. "The snow is magical." "I'm hoping it doesn't stick around for long," he said. "I'm going back to bed. Don't stay up all night." He turned and walked away. Hearing his feet on the floor, she wondered why it always sounded as if he stomped when he walked. She watched out the window as two foxes made of glistening snow played in a snowdrift in the middle of the backyard. They were running in circles, chasing each other. She tapped on the glass. They stopped and stared at her as their mouths broke into smiles. One of them raised its front paw and gestured for her to come join them. Putting on her boots that were always placed by the back door and taking her coat off a hook and putting that on, she opened the door and went out. The snow lightly crunched beneath her boots and her footprints disappeared almost immediately as she took the next step. The foxes ran up to her and sat on their haunches. "Why do you live in that big box?" the one said, pointing its nose toward the house. "It's my home," she said. "Where do you live?" They both patted the snow with their tails. "We live here," they said in unison. Looking around, she saw the hares had returned to the snow bordering the yard and were nervously watching her. "Don't be afraid," she said. "I mean you no harm." Tentatively, first one, then another, then all of them crossed the yard and encircled her. "Where are your young ones?" a large one of them asked. "I have no young ones," Rosalie said, unable to hide the sadness she felt. "I was going to have a young one, but she died before she was born." "How sad," the hare said. "Can't you make another one?" "Yes, but I might lose that one also," Rosalie said. "How many young ones do you have?" "As many as the snow will allow, which is quite a few," the hare said. "I should go in now," Rosalie said. "I hope we'll meet again." She went into the house and as she began to close the door, she watched the foxes and hares dissolve into eddies of snow that crossed the yard and melded into the snowdrifts along its edge. The twilight sky was a smooth sheet of dark gray that covered the landscape as far as the eye could see. The windowpane rattled from the wind that blew snow across the prairie. Rosalie sat in the rocking chair with a ball of pink yarn in her lap, a strand of it attached to the knitting needles in her hand. Her fingers moved swiftly as she made loops in the yarn and inserted a needle in the loops and pulled the strand, making row after row of the baby blanket that lay across her knees. Looking out occasionally, she watched for the snow animals, but none appeared. She had a cup of hot tea on the small table next to the chair. Wisps of steam rose up from it, forming images of gossamer angels that quickly dissipated. Roger came into the room. "What are you doing?" "Finishing a blanket," she said without looking at him. "Why?" he said as he came to the window and looked out. "Maybe someday. . .," she started, stopping as she missed finishing a loop. Roger said, "You know what the doctor said. Trying to have another baby could kill you." "I know what he said," Rosalie said. She paused and then said, "Having a baby could kill me or give me life." Staring at the blowing snow, he said, "It sure is cold out there." "Yes it is," she said. "None of the animals are coming out." He gazed at her. "What animals?" "The hares and foxes and deer and all the rest," she said. "They stay hidden even in good weather," he said. She shifted the blanket on her knees as she began a new row. "Yes, I guess they do." He bent down and kissed her on the forehead. His lips felt like ice. "I'm going to drive down to the Gold Nugget and have a couple of beers and play some darts," he said. She reached up and wiped his kiss from her forehead. "That's quite a drive. Is it safe driving around in this weather?" "I have chains on the tires, and I'll be careful," he said. "I'll probably spend the night at Jack and Ruth's, so don't wait up for me. I'll be back tomorrow around noon." "Okay," she said as he left the room. With the blanket finished, she put the needles and yarn on the table, picked up the cooled tea, and took several sips while staring out the window. A few minutes later, she heard Roger go out the front door and the truck being started. As night fell and the clouds began to thin, six snow coyotes with twigs and dead prairie grass in their mouths came into the backyard. As the wind blew, they cleared a spot in the snow and put the twigs and grass in the spot. They turned their heads toward her and smiled. Prairie dogs and hares rose from the snow drifts at the edge of the yard and began forming balls of snow that they rolled to the twigs and grass. They left the balls there, dashed back to the drifts, and stood there as if waiting for something. Rosalie rose from her chair, and carrying the blanket with her, she went into the kitchen and looked out the kitchen window. From there, she could see the border of the entire backyard was lined with many of the snow-formed prairie animals she had already seen, along with others she hadn't seen before: moles, gophers, and mountain goats. They stood unwavering as the wind buffeted their snowy fur. She put on her boots and coat and went out the door. Before she reached the twigs and grass, she heard the crying of an infant, which made her heart beat wildly as if it had been jolted with electricity. She ran to the nest that had been made and knelt in the snow. In it, a girl baby made of snow reached up to her, the baby's blue eyes shedding sparkling tears that formed icicles on her snow-white cheeks. Rosalie laid the blanket across the child, scooped her up in her arms, and held the baby close and began rocking. The infant immediately stopped crying and cooed and gurgled happily. The animals surrounded her and the child, blocking the wind with their bodies. Overwhelmed with happiness, Rosalie began to cry, her warm teardrops falling on the baby's face, leaving small, melted indentations in the child's snow-chilled cheeks. Rosalie gathered snow in her hand and gently rubbed it on those places, restoring the child's face to what it had been. Feeling the blanket becoming moist from the infant's melting body, Rosalie removed it and threw it aside and laid the baby in the snow. She gently patted snow onto the infant's entire body while talking to it in loving, soothing tones. She did this all night. The rising sun blanketed the prairie with its warmth, and the air grew still. As the sun rose higher in the sky and the landscape became heated, the animals still around Rosalie and the infant began to melt. Rosalie lifted the melting infant in her arms and held the child close. When Roger returned home and didn't find his wife inside the house, he went out to the backyard. He first found the blanket, and then beside the bed of twigs and dead grass, he found Rosalie's wet clothes lying in a puddle. The End. Steven Carr, from Richmond, Virginia, has had over 500 short stories published internationally in print and online magazines, literary journals, reviews and anthologies, since June 2016. He has had seven collections of his short stories published. His paranormal/horror novel, "Redbird", was released November of 2019. He is the publisher/editor of online magazines, Short Story Town, and Sweetycat Press, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, twice. Read and find out more about this prolific writer at Steve Carr , Facebook, and Twitter.

Heartfelt Thanks to our regular Contributor, Carl Scharwath, who recently interviewed writer, Frances Park, exclusively for ILA Magazine, please read on! Carl: I had the pleasure of interviewing Frances Park for ILA Magazine. Frances is not only a prolific writer, but also owns a chocolate shop with her sister, Ginger. The shop - Chocolate Chocolate - started in 1984 and is located in Washington, D. C. Good morning, Frances, I am so grateful you decided to share your writing experience with our ILA Magazine readers, and I would like to ask you the following questions, please: Tell us about the first time you felt the need to write and how old were you? Frances: I was ten years old, and it was more of an assignment than a need. One day, Mrs. Anderson, my fifth-grade teacher, announced that a few of us had filled the year's reading requirements and no longer had to take reading class. Instead, we were to form our desks into a horseshoe-shape and write. No restrictions, just fly. I loved it and ended up writing a several hundred-page manuscript titled "Betty Lou", which the teacher loved. One day, Mrs. Anderson opened up the accordion doors to the other fifth-grade class, and asked me to start reading from "Betty Lou." With that, the ritual began. Every day after lunch, I would read a new chapter to my classmates. Carl: Of all your amazing diverse types of writing, is there one style you prefer most and why? Frances: I've been published since the early 90's, and always thought of myself as a fiction writer, but in 2014, when I tried my hand at my first personal essay since college, the experience was nothing short of epiphanic. Suddenly, my whole soul was set free - I could say anything I wanted, I didn't have to be proper or polite - it was like running naked into an ocean or a field of wildflowers under the moon. Liberating. Exhilarating! I was hooked and knew right then and there that deep and honest personal works were my true calling as an author. Over the course of seven years - nothing short of a cerebral adventure - I composed twenty-five more, until I had a themed collection that practically titled itself That Lonely Spell. Carl: How have the past influences in your life weaved their way into your writing? Frances: The main influences in my life have been my parents, and my Korean American experience which is reflected in most of my work. My parents came to this country in the mid-fifties, as part of a nearly-invisible wave of South Koreans comprised of students and scholars. Growing up, I had no cultural references here, and never met or even knew of another Korean American student from kindergarten through college. If I could quote from one of my novels - ". . .the US Census Bureau need only come to Ahn dinner table for a Korean head count in our Virginia 'burb." That was our family as well. My psyche is vastly different from the younger Korean American generation. Carl: If you could tell your younger writing self some advice, what would it be? Frances: Not to think of writing as a way to impress anyone or conquer the world. Or to get rich or famous. Even though it's a hard pill to swallow, that very likely won't happen and will only end up in crushing disappointment. Even when I've had my 'moments' - like when the sale of one of my novels was announced in the New York Times or when I was interviewed on Good Morning America, etc. - I can tell you they never matched my imagination. A minute later, they really felt like nothing, to be honest. The best moments are when you're pouring your soul into a work and derive pleasure from it. Period. Carl: Please share with us, what is your most interesting writing quirk? Frances: It's not really a quirk but I can only write when I'm alone, without any distractions. No music, no television, just peace and quiet. I'm a big daydreamer, so that's distraction enough! Carl: What are some best practices you can share with a new writer? Frances: Well, everyone's different. Unlike many authors, I don't work well with schedules, I couldn't possibly tell myself to write two hours in the morning, every morning, or whatever. I like to write when the mood and the call, the inspiration, comes over me. More chance for magic. Carl: What does literary success look like to you, Frances. Frances: Like everyone, writers go through different phases. As a younger author, like many, I had an ego and wanted that bestseller so badly I thought I would absolutely die if it never happened - and the sooner the better! For me, the dream had little to do with money; I just wanted everyone in the world to realize I was an artist, an important somebody. And then, as previously mentioned, when the big moments came, they weren't fulfilling to me at all. At this stage of my life, I just want the satisfying journey. Carl: Thank you again, Frances, for your time today and for allowing our ILA Magazine readers to get to know you a little better. My only wish would have been to interview you in your chocolate shop with a plate of your best chocolate samples. Frances Park is a Korean American author or co-author of ten books published in seven languages including the novels, 'When My Sister Was Cleopatra Moon' (Hyperion) and 'To Swim Across the World' (Hyperion), the memoir 'Chocolate Chocolate: The True Story of Two Sisters, Tons of Treats and the Little Shop that Could' (Thomas Dunne), children's books 'My Freedom Trip: A Child's Escape from North Korea' (Boyd's Mills Press) and 'Good-bye, 382 Shin Dang Dong' (National Geographic Books). Her short fiction and personal essays have appeared in O: The Oprah Magazine, Spirituality & Health Magazine, The Chicago Quarterly, The London Magazine, Gulf Coast Journal, Arts & Letters, and The Belleview Literary Review, to name a few. Praised by The Times Literary Supplement, The Washington Post, USA Today, The London Times, NPR and Voice of America, Frances was a finalist in the 2020 Dzanc Diverse Voices Book Prize and the 2019 Dzanc Novella Prize. Frances earned a spot on The Best American Essays 2017 Notable List with her essay, "You Two Are So Beautiful Together." Prizes for children's books, which are used in reading classes across the country, include the International Reading award, the Joan G. Sugarman Award, Notable Books for a Global Society Awards and the Paterson Prize. Her forthcoming memoir THAT LONELY SPELL: Stories of Family, Friends & Love (Heliotrope Books 2022), deals with love and loss against the backdrop of her unique Korean American experience. Carl Scharwath has appeared globally, with 150+ Journals selecting his poetry, short stories, interviews, essays, plays or art/photography. Two of his books have ben published, 'Journey to Become Forgotten' (Kind of Hurricane Press), 'Abandoned' (ScarsTv) and recently published book, 'Playground of Destiny' (Imspired Publishing). His first photography book was recently published by Praxis. Carl is an Art Editor for Minute Magazine. He is a competitive runner and holds a 2nd degree Black Belt in Taekwondo.

I Spoke to You I spoke to you once of voices and streets snatches of sky between us and stone walls of your home that always muffled a conversation steady patter of summer that swung into your windows eyes that begged me to keep quiet and wait for a promised rain again. © Amitabh Mitra Art above, created by Dr. Amitabh Mitra on a 350 GSM Paper Hand-printed with silk screen. YouTube video below of Dr. Amitabh Mitra speaking on Fusion of Trauma Medicine with Visual Art:

© Written by Joan McNerney Those are tough trees growing in slums With no need of rich soil or pruning, they rise in abandoned lots. These are trees that survive rubbish, rodents, noxious chemicals. Not easily cut down, they stand against gaunt tenements. Climbing skyward, delicate palm leaves flourish flowering pods. These trees of heaven give children glimpses of bright emerald each morning. The stars play peek-a-boo between their branches through long nights. Who said a taste of paradise is only for the rich?