The poppy
In the middle of a field, a poppy was raising its red top towards the sky. Hidden in the grass, by its feet, a white little flower, with a vague appearance, had blossomed, but it was so small that it barely brushed the ground. (dwg.1) When the poppy bothered talking to it, it had to curve down like a question mark. –You’re so small! -it told the flower- I can’t even see you- a dewdrop will drown you; if a bee comes to suck your nectar, you are at risk of being drained to death, a dragonfly is like an airplane for you. Look at me instead, look how big I am! Compared to you, I could be a palm tree! –If the things in this world- the small white flower answered –were to be measured in size, a millstone would be more precious than a diamond. A needle is small, yet a tailor lives by it; slight wind lights a fire, strong wind blows it out. –“de minimis non curat papaver” (Latin: the poppy doesn’t care of such slightly important things. TN) –the red flower said. You live on the ground, I jut towards the sky. –Ah, yes? Many times, my dear, it’s safer to keep yourself grounded rather than rising too much. While they were talking they heard a hammer gloomily hitting. They silenced. The poppy raised up tall on his stem and saw a farmer hitting with the hammer and sickle to thin the hay. (dwg.2) Seeing that it turned pale. –What’s happening? The tiny flower asked. –They’re beginning to scythe the field. –Ah! A little later, they heard a swoosh in the grass that went on growing, then they suddenly saw a flash among the green and the long blade of a sickle. The terrible iron cut the poppy’s stem, that fell among the other weeds; (dwg.3) but it didn’t touch the small white flower, so close to the land, which continued raising its slight perfume towards the sky in the middle of the butchery. (dwg.4)
