Descriptive writing

Snow Covered Burial Ground

A time ago in a sorrowful place, in a soundless scenery.  The ephemeral flowers scatter in the wind, letting themselves be carried along by the flow of time, to float in the tranquil water.  The swaying branches act as locks of hair in the deafening breeze along with a flock of birds flying away.
  The north wind blows over the various streets and the stars are streaming in the various nights, dimly illuminating the desolate, wooden platform of the stage.
  Running through the faint glow, being led by the hand towards the stage where the divine song of angels can be heard.  On the stage of fate, fragile fingers of snow play notes daintily on the parquetry.  In the music the god cried, the crying voices of stardust resonate as the gently glimmering crescent moon disappears into the clouds, and he has no umbrella.
  The rain pours so heavily so that the wailing song cannot even be heard.  As the god laments mournfully, the small land takes its delicate hand and then somehow whispered to it with its unchanging voice, the whiteness from snow can remove the darkness in the heart, the rain of consolation stops to allow the dancing snowflakes to purify and suppress the lamentations of the god.
  Blessed, the cradle of the land falls into sleep.  On a quiet night with the windows open, at midnight, it plays the murmurs of a grandfather clock; its ticking signals the beginning of dreams.
  Street night lights with monochrome snowing, where your voice cannot even reach the long dead burial ground of valiant samurais, the scars carved into our bodies recant their memories of war as snow falls on our wake.
  The fought for this world filled with hope as it should be, as if it were a brilliantly coloured camellia flower in the snow.  Their tales are told, in the dark and bitter nights, generation after generation, to spread the hope.
    The gentle aroma of the forest is drowned by the sweet, soft scent of camellias and cherry blossoms with the crisp smell of snow lulls the stars of the Milky Way to sleep as they hold hands whilst, they feel the end draws near.
  Spring is waiting for you.
  If they someday awaken from this transient dream, then on the crimson dyed petals of the snow camellias, within these winter tree trunks, let him give him his final blossom, and the old cherry tree withered and passed on into a serene sleep.
  Morning came, as if it were the thawing of spring...