A stretch from the past
A weird feeling
A small tinge, a small bud
He never actually felt it.
But seeing the single rose
A single bush, with nothing but the rose
The only color, the only beauty
The flower that overflows with red.
Was it that beautiful feeling?
The feeling that only appear in a book?
A fictional thing? Untrue? Unspoken?
Was it that undescribable feeling?
This wonderful flower
He picked it away from the pain
Even if it pricked his gentle fingers
He had saved the wonderful flower.
The flower, grateful, happy
Smiled from ear to ear
Hugged the young child
And left with a single message.
A single undecipherable message
No one but the leaves could understand
No one but the trees could illustrate
And no one but she herself can say.
The child, confused,
Ran after her,
But it was too late
For she was already rooted in his heart.
And so the first fragment began.