You used to tell me that flowers
had nothing to do with you.
You were not that kind of people.
But I always saw you
like the wild flowers.
Those that grow free
from between the cracks
with the sun's rays of the Mediterranean.
So fragile and powerful at the same time.
So delicate and so brutal.
You hated the bouquets
you play too many times "loves me,
loves me not".
But that day
with that small flower
in your hands
you discover with surprise
that every flower that opens
reminds us
that the world
is still not tired of color.
