Where dead flowers lived between beautiful pages.
It was Sunday. It was a nice present, once more I turned its pages, smiling. I will not be able to hold a book like this in my hands, until I get into one. Meanwhile, the dry flowers fell out of it. Tiny hands had once picked them. Following the rule, unknowingly, still wiser than anybody alive who just numbly watches the progress of time.
They are lying on a white page, embarrassed. I expose. I had to hurry, I remember, on Sunday mornings I was always in a hurry.
For years. And now they are lying here, the three of them, or alone, on a white sheet, for a short while, as they do not even have to be here.
They are already in this beutiful book, in which they requested to be put in.