The little roses were born in a garden. They bloomed on a Sunday morning with all their might. A man carefully plucked them.
They rested in a basket with many others like them. Few of them passed several hands, until they reached her hands.
She placed them in a bucket full of water. The roses waited.
Three hours later, I walked by and asked the lady to make a bouquet for me. The lady carefully selected the roses and tucked them together in a small pot. Covered them with a shiny transparent plastic.
The roses were given to my brother for his birthday. The roses were the bridge that connected two people.
This is, in the truest sense of the word, dying for the cause one was born for.
Why are we humans, then, so scared of dying?
They rested in a basket with many others like them. Few of them passed several hands, until they reached her hands.
She placed them in a bucket full of water. The roses waited.
Three hours later, I walked by and asked the lady to make a bouquet for me. The lady carefully selected the roses and tucked them together in a small pot. Covered them with a shiny transparent plastic.
The roses were given to my brother for his birthday. The roses were the bridge that connected two people.
This is, in the truest sense of the word, dying for the cause one was born for.
Why are we humans, then, so scared of dying?
hey that was beautifully written.I like your style of writing.
ReplyDeleteRajeev
that was superb
ReplyDelete