The long surging summer evenings, dull and greasy, are as unfortunate as the late winter, when snow ice merges mud tight in mounds and strengthened by cold air at the edge of small paths … It is then when the sad stories are born, that could be no thought, no writing, not even narrated in the spring or autumn, when the rains and fresh air enjoy the souls, no matter how poisonous they are.
You will not find brave knights in this story, no kings clad in gold, no witches, no dragons … but let‘s get on her thread …
At the edge of a trail that crossed a field that no one ever cultivated, and which was rarely crossed by a wild dog, grew a stringy, fibrous, solid and dangerous, but common variety of thistle, maybe more developed than others, only he did not have anyone to compare, he was alone among the fragile grass. The years passed and the winds, and heat, and snow, have drained his power, causing it to dry …
He does not seem bad, felt like dying every day, but he had no regrets, he was bored; no longer love the persistent rain, nor the hot heat, nor the dry wind, almost he enjoy that will give them the finger and they will no more have to stumble.
But time and fate scoff the thistle who tired looking at the monotony around him, and he observed in an early spring as, a few inches of his dry and gnarled stem, is rising the slender stalk of a lily …
What is this miracle? How have arisen here a so delicate flower? The miracle continues and lily grew ever higher, and his flower, a lonely one, opened one morning, white, delicate iridescent in an azure light, and the dry thistle feel that he want to feel again the tide of sap thumping into his dry stem and leaf…
He admired for hours the perfect creation, until its dry thorns felt a cold breeze, then he saw the evil clouds covering the sky, he felt the lightning burning lead free from the sinister sky above. He knew that the delicate lily will be hard to resist the bane, so he strained his dry stumps, rising from the land that was crawling careless, and tightened as a shield to defend the fragile stalk.
The wind was wild turning on and the first ice blast shatters the dry vigor of the thistle. Then barely he seemed sorry that dies …
(Translated from aMorale, by Marius Cilibia)
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