BILLS

He was born one day, between shamrocks and thistles
To brighten the sun with its colors,
But I could not see it: the branches of the trees
Impeded the passage of light.

She spent years hiding in the deep
Of a forest where ever
Pierced the beneficial rays
The leafy weave of the cups,
And the flower waited: it did not want,
He could not stay, die, not receive
The golden glow of the morning.

I invite you to look for her, to ask her
How he survived the wet
Gliding from insects, fungi and snails,
What blessing accompanied his leaves
And protected their petals
Because maybe the secret of the patient flower
Get transformed
In fragrance and delicate shades
Our little deaths.

The story of a flower.