Passion of the Poppy Flower

“Once you decided to bloom as your trueself, despite all the odds you bloom anyway. Keep going.” @oldsoulview

Photo taken By @oldsoulview (Neris Dipsov) instagram account.

They told of the light of the fields of time. A little boy working in the field borrows the hands of time in his harvest every night. In the middle of a town that does not think about why it forgot to feed the birds, but calculates everything, he would plant his field with those hands and harvest with those hands. The beam of light on the edge of the field made the boy's crops grow. The golden vitamins of light raised the boy by feeding them with the field. The field, on the other hand, began to lose its former efficiency in the hands of time. Nothing has ever grown in the field except a resilient and red enough poppy flower. The little boy became a young man. The only rare flower of the field that dries up as he grows, the only representative of the light, has grown to the young man's youth in the field of time. Time never took its hands off the flower, after all, the poppy was the only glory in its field. Yet, like the shameful pain of an incomplete sadness, the flower did not meet the young man. The young man decided to go far from the field. He thought there were other magics he hadn't seen. From now on, the field he once looked at with his hands seemed to him a dry land. The poppy's incomplete pain and the young man's proud despair have sown the seeds of separation. The wind whispered to the weasel the news of the young man who had passed away. The young man, with his sweaty stature looking for hope, began to stun. Some said that the roads were drunk. The lights falling on the field of time did not flow into the young man's heart. The solitary acumen of the poppy in the field continued to add colour to the pain of unexpected rootlessness. As time took his hands away from the young man who was walking away from the field, the poppy grew in the field, painting its acumen into crimson dreams. The young man was far from his heart, but the passion of his heart alone covered the field with scarlet fire. When we turn our backs to the field, where our passion can grow apart from us, our fire rises outside of us. In the art of being oneself opened by the poppy's passion, time and space become null.

By Neris Dipsov

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