Careful, she placed the apron over her head and tightened it behind. Not for a second was she breathing the far away warm thought. A white perfumed breeze was surrounding her. And it was talking in the 13 languages of the earth made of flowers. And it kept of yielding fruits, and it kept on tormenting, and it kept on studying it.
It reached the flight which came to stay,
She was a woman, and what a woman...
And then she bended and was picking up a small scissor
A small, but beloved, scissors.
And she brought the hair in the back and she started.
And again it happened, the perfumed rose spoke to her.
And the purple lilac spread out and whispered to her.
So many times she had stepped on the small path and yet she couldn’t take it out of her mind the large lily. And neither the lemon. And because she had secretly decided to admire it also, lost among the alleys, thin, she remained mute, on the small path, to breath it...
A far away memory overwhelmed her,
With its false friends,
Almost all of them lying in wait
And with the pollen gathered in the laps.
And she kept flying, light as a feather,
So that the roller would not catch her,
Would not stop her, to beg from her,
Any advice relating closely to hunting.
And with the flowers’ perfume,
To wash the clouds’ lap,
To bend them and to unfold them,
Not to forget them, like a rain.
And to kill them a bit, soon-soon...
And she had reached also the shabby bridge, from underneath the olive tree. She was looking carefully and the green shaking, like the wise who a parable sees... and fell asleep and rouse. She had again forgotten to greet the lily.
And in a second, she lost herself towards the horizon.
Nicholasine, with the soul as a flower.
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