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It grows on each meadow
The old man with the pencil of the carpenters behind his ear went in the heat up the stone way to the bench under the chestnut tree. In its shadow sat Pilgrim, the boy. ”Come on,” he said. ”You'll be surprised.” ”Well,”, the old man said and let the boy guide him up the hill. The boy pushed through the wilderness. The old man followed. ”Is it far?” ”Back there,” Pilgrim whispered and put his finger to his lips. ”Quiet.” The man nodded. They went forward and a little bit right. ”You see?” ”Dead leafs. Brush wood.” ”There, the flower,” the boy said and pointed the direction. ”It grows on each meadows. What are we doing here?” The man looked up in the sky. ”Only I know it. It is my flower.” Pilgrim was disappointed. The old man stroke the boy's hair. Now I am old, he thought. It is time to become mild. ”It is the most beautiful and prettier than the flowers in the gardens,” he said. The boy smiled.
The next day, Pilgrim sat under the chestnut tree. He cut the flower and wanted to give it to the old man. He waited until dusk. Then he waited a little bit longer and went home. The flower laid on the bench in darkness and closed its bloom against the night.
copyright 1996.
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