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I am walking down the street to a place I call home. My steps are hurried and just around the corner I look forward to my favourite sight.

It’s a welcome song, a red carpet hung up in the air; the sight so beautiful and natural that it always manages to take my breath away. It’s a gigantic Bougainvillea, a beautiful gentle, giant among the raging concrete. The way I see, it looks like a woman’s beautifully adorned dress spilling on the street. And it’s for that beautiful sight I walk quickly.

How many different ways can a heart really break? A lover’s quarrel, a loved one’s death and the grave that greeted me on the way. The dress was trimmed, and it was way too short. I looked at the woman, whose clothes were not so long. The leaves and branches lay broken on the streets, people want to make roads wider, so they don’t really care about pretty trees. The flowers were dying, so was my heart, my beautiful giant of a tree was no longer that tall.

I might be a fool to cry over things so small. But convince my weeping heart that can’t help but celebrate the beauty even if it’s on a busy street.


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