The wooden bench of my town park
A rose grew next to each wooden bench, a "romance" bloomed on each bench, and the romantics who did not reach the bank, frantically slipped into the green and indifferent pastures, giving free rein to their daring rites.
Often some stranger censored the scenes, the vast majority, did not even realize the bodies.
Stray dogs, cynical flies, and some other oddballs, playful, roamed the banks, shared spaces with the absent, with the absent.
Each rose was a witness to the promises of the possessed, of their endless dreams in wakefulness, attended impassively to the burial of feelings; He often saw capital sins triumph.
A bank revolted and protested the misuse of time, the abandonment of the virtues, the annulment of souls; He slowly let himself rot, exemplarily committed suicide.
One by one the rosebushes, dismayed by the noble act, communed with the ideal of the bank, empirically shared their heroic declaration, they also committed suicide.
Today in that place there are only lots of putrefied wood, twisted and rusted iron, and the memory of an expressive and free desire that never germinated is evoked, Love.
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