Nearby, there was a flower exhibition. Natural flowers, I must say. Nor would it make any sense, if it was an exhibition of plastic flowers. Or of cloth flowers. Or of paper flowers. Or of flowers on paintings.

When they are in a garden, flowers are always in exhibition.
“Behold our colours,” say the roses.
“Appreciate the vigour of our stem and the elegance of our corolla,” say the arum lilies, which are called “glasses of milk” by the Brazilians. I wonder why!
“Ravish with the delicate painting of our petals,” say the pansies.
The garden flowers are really vain. In the exhibition, displayed in jars or in vases, delight whoever passed by them.

At the entrance, but outside the flower festival, a poppy drew my attention.
“They won’t let me in,” she complained. “They say that the exhibition is only for cultivated flowers. I think that’s very unfair.”
I was of the same opinion. So, to make justice and to pay homage to the country flowers, who are as humble as beautiful, I took the poppy and put it on my lapel. Then, I went to see the exhibition as if I was carrying on my chest a medal able to make the envy of generals.

A scandal arose among the flowers of the contest.
“Why does this simpleton from the countryside have to be here exhibiting herself?” they asked one another.

But the visitors of the exhibition looked at us – at the poppy and at me – and smiled.

My poppy, with a red face, felt the queen of the party. Never had she drawn so many glares, so much attention, so much kindness. It was too much emotion for such a fragile poppy. Before I got to the end of the exhibition, the petals of my poppy had flown away. Where to? It doesn’t matter.
That had been the most glorious moment of her short life.

A. Torrado