It is spring! Evening. Spring is suffocating me. It takes my breath away. My soul can no longer bear so much beauty. It's like loading a red pomegranate onto the back of a caterpillar.
My veins swell, my blood hurts, and the seeds inside me struggle to sprout, yet there is no soil for them to take root. There is not enough water for them to be watered. When I should have cut down all the wild bushes to free the landscape, I didn't do it. I felt sorry for the snakes, who wouldn't have any more nests to hide in.
When I should have saved some water for a time of need, I didn't do it. I felt sorry for the strays, who were thirsty. Now... Now, how can the bulbs sprout? How can the dreams be watered...
Nevertheless, I am not saying that I can't find some solutions. There is always a forgotten, empty tin can in my soul. That is enough for me to plant a flower, seasonal.
-I don't know if there is another creature on earth that serves and worships the ephemeral as much as you do! a lover of mine once told me.
-Of course, there is. Butterflies! I replied to him.
