There is a gate that should not be opened

White paint untouched, as if none had dared

The air feels too clean, almost alive

Flowers grow where they were never planted

Everything seems perfect, too perfect

The soil remembers every careful step

You tell yourself it's quiet here

But it is not quiet it is waiting

In the garden of dark sins

Nothing is forbidden here

The white deceives, it hides the rot

Every secret has its place

All is offered

All is taken

Nothing looks broken, no question disturbs

You can walk for hours and find no edge

Shapes lie beneath the ground, measured

They stopped moving long before your time

You feel it before you understand

Something has already happened here

More than once and someone keeps the count

In the garden of dark sins

Nothing is forbidden here

The white deceives, it hides the rot

Every secret has its place

All is offered

All is taken

No marks on the surface, no sign of struggle

No names left where names should remain

Only the count, repeated in the soil

Until the number looks like careful work

You try to retrace your steps

But the garden knows where you have been

The path was arranged before you came

Something has already chosen your direction

You stop calling it a garden

You start to count

It shows you everything, it names nothing

And the longer you stay

The more you resemble the one who planted

In the garden of dark sins

You stop asking what happened

You stop asking who

There is no moment it turns

No line you can point to

Only a slow understanding

That nothing here is out of place

Including you