At Dona Rosita, the old maid, the orgasm of flowers reaches a fiendish whirlwind, a wild dance of petals that drowns out all other linguistic symbols. All faces speak in the language of flowers. Everything is expressed with blooming words.

The passing time is the chamomile of the mountain. The beloved's eyes are sunset with poppies. Gossip is nettles. The unpartnered evening walk of the girls is a pained jasmine. The wound of love is crimson carnation. The foaming sea is full of nerines.

And, as the sun sets, the day faints among the water violets. And of course, at the center, lies the sorrowful ballad of the rose, which in the morning is fiery and red, which in the afternoon becomes white like the salt of the shore, and when the night falls, it quietly withers.

(Excerpt from the edition, from the book by Alexis Solomon "Theatrical Notebook")