Short and Musical

by Johnny Virgil

  Is magnanimous, fascinating . . .

  Green, life

  Dominate the landscape.

  There is a rustic house;

  There are a gate and a fence.

  Inside this small square

  Lies Nature's essence.

  For the flowers are just one soul,

  A profound song to life.

  (...)

  The woman: poor experienced woman!

  In the extreme loneliness of her existence,

  Only the roses were left.

  And she lulls them,

  Lulled by the roses she is.

  Notwithstanding, she does not stop loving anyone,

  Those who run away from her because she is ugly,

  Hunchbacked and ragged.

  But she, despite of her extreme poverty,

  Calls attention with the roses,

  Noble roses grown by golden fingers.

  She, intending to have friends,

  In order to get rid of that sad solitude,

  Takes care of her vases like an angel.

  (...)

  The plants are everywhere.

  There are roses in the doorway, on the roof;

  In the fence, in the road.

  To this woman, the wrinkled lady,

  The world is a garden of roses

  – And nothing more.

  Prejudice

  Everyone stopped by the house.

  They stared at the garden, sighed.

  But when, from the doorway,

  The lady addressed them with

  'These roses are mine,'

  They turned their backs, walked away.

  The lady, watching them leave in the distance,

  Filled herself with resentment and said:

  'My roses,

  You are the wonder.

  Even you would not have been born by yourselves,

  Without the help of my hands.

  However, they smile at you;

  And despise me.'

  When that used to happen,

  She would go back inside the house,

  She would take the watering-can

  And fill it with water.

  After this, watering the flowers,

  She whistled a sad melody.

  Death

  One day, after dawn

  (Cloudy it was, by the way),

  The woman did not go out to water the flowers.

  And days followed

  Without her stepping out of the house.

  Inside, in a dirty corner,

  A withered and decayed body lay.

  (...)

  The roses knew that she had died.

  And they grew on and on . . .

  Took possession of the hovel;

  Occupied the surroundings with their boughs.

  And, when the mausoleum was ready,

  They faded away, died, vanished . . .

  (...)

  And those who remember those times,

  Passing by the ruined hovel,

  Whisper in a touched way:

  'The richness of this house was not the flowers,

  But the woman who watered them.'

  The End

  Will never be forgotten

  That one that one day was

  'A rose among many others.'

  Afterword

  Farewell, my friend.

  Words would be vain,

  Were we perfect.

  But, if these verses are useless,

  We will burn them.

  Only both of us

  Know what makes us happy.

  Any comments may be sent to the author at the e-mail account johnnyvirgil@hotmail.com.