"Las espinas no sirven para nada; son pura maldad de las flores" El aviador al Principito (Antoine de Saint-Exupéry)
Te acercas al rosal, atraído por el color y el perfume de sus flores. But not enough for you, you have the ephemeral beauty and elegance of roses.
In a corner of your home, moth-eaten on a table, you have a frosted glass vase. It has placed daisies, carnations, lilies ... that withered wither without them your taking a look, except for that which you took them out of their stems. The discard when the smell of decay, primordial water, offends your nose and defiles the aseptic environment you intend to keep every hole, every square inch of flimsy lair that, pompously, name it "creative retreat" against the few friends preserved because they have not discovered the torn rags your soul.
But you get closer to Rose, confident, without even thinking of transplanting in the backyard of your home. Just because you do not contemplate free, flourishing for all in the field. Contact with the earth and wind. And you're thinking whether to take the or buttons over the roses and wake up the sun.
have not noticed that the rose, as a wise and delicate beauty, has leaves and thorns, which help to nourish, to battles through its branches, giving consistency and support as a whole.
But you get closer to Rose, proudly bare hands, and when you try to start the flowers from their stems, a cry of pain escapes your throat numb and a drop of blood at your fingertips, you remember that you are alive.
And instead of thanking, cursing the roses to go, as always, looking daisies look once - only once, then discarded when they are wilted.
In a corner of your home, moth-eaten on a table, you have a frosted glass vase. It has placed daisies, carnations, lilies ... that withered wither without them your taking a look, except for that which you took them out of their stems. The discard when the smell of decay, primordial water, offends your nose and defiles the aseptic environment you intend to keep every hole, every square inch of flimsy lair that, pompously, name it "creative retreat" against the few friends preserved because they have not discovered the torn rags your soul.
But you get closer to Rose, confident, without even thinking of transplanting in the backyard of your home. Just because you do not contemplate free, flourishing for all in the field. Contact with the earth and wind. And you're thinking whether to take the or buttons over the roses and wake up the sun.
have not noticed that the rose, as a wise and delicate beauty, has leaves and thorns, which help to nourish, to battles through its branches, giving consistency and support as a whole.
But you get closer to Rose, proudly bare hands, and when you try to start the flowers from their stems, a cry of pain escapes your throat numb and a drop of blood at your fingertips, you remember that you are alive.
And instead of thanking, cursing the roses to go, as always, looking daisies look once - only once, then discarded when they are wilted.
