It’s spring! Evening. Spring chokes 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 aches, the seeds inside me struggle to sprout and there is no soil for them to take root. There is not enough water to nourish them. When I had to cut all the wild bushes to free the landscape, I didn’t do it. I felt sorry for the snakes, who would have no other nests to hide in.
When I had to save some water for times of need, I didn’t do it. I felt sorry for the stray animals, who were thirsty. Now... Now, how can the bulbs sprout? How can dreams be watered...
Nevertheless, I’m not saying that I don’t find some solutions. There is always a forgotten, empty tin can in my soul. It’s enough for me to plant a seasonal flower.
“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. “Oh, yes! There is. Butterflies!” I answered him.
