Short short short short story:

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.

This is a nice little scene!

I like how it moves along, and shows us what the boy is thinking.....

It needs just a tiny bit of editing to fix some of the translation. There are a couple of places where you can see that it wasn't written in English originally.....

I like it!

:loveya: :hug:

I think I translated this one, and since it was written a long time ago (also translated a long time ago), there might be errors.

:hug:

It made me think of haiku, as in "the perfect, economical encapsulation of a single thought". Every part blazed with image. Wonderful.

:applause:

Which is one of my favorites.

like a distillation.