Monday, May 28, 2012

Her Freedom

She wasn't like all the other flowers. Maybe from the surface, yes. But you wouldn't have singled her out if you were just an outsider looking in. You would simply take in the breath-taking carpet of yellow tulips spread as far as your eyes can reach, each no different from the other.

If you had a special plant-translation device with you though, you'd hear her bitter whispers. Pretty aggressive too, coming from a delicate tulip like that.

So stuck here.
This is pathetic.
Bound by a stalk to the ground. 
My right to freedom.
Let. me. go.

So you do let her go. Out of genuine conviction. Or pity. Or submission.
But did you remember to remind her that she dies when she breaks away from her roots?


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