Grapefruit flowers, lotus flowers and daisies all enter the streets like messengers of the season. When people go to the suburbs, to the countryside to enjoy the fresh air, the flowers suddenly return to the streets. The streets do not lack colors, the streets do not lack scents, but if the flowers do not come, the streets will be out of season, the streets will no longer be streets. The streets are noisy with car horns, bustling with green and red lights, but the streets are also silent, waiting for the seasons to speak. Flowers follow people to the upper floors, into the rooms, flowers are wrapped in newspapers, in wrapping paper with the emotional words "I love you" appearing after the doorbell... a blushing face, a warm embrace of lasting love from flowers like that.
Somehow, after wandering around the streets where daisies "invade", I feel like I've wandered into a legend. That flower does not carry a rustic story, nor is it so elegant that it creates a halo for itself like lilies or roses, but daisies are the song of the bird whose name it bears. The song of the nightingale drops clear drops into the realm of emotions. The bouquet is not elaborate, the scent is not passionate, the flower seems to walk in a dream with the fog down the street.
The dream named nightingale begins on a simple wooden table, in a deserted cafe filled with the scent of coffee. Flowers and memories are enough to keep us alive with the old memories of our youth and excitement. I once saw a whole field of nightingales in the cold wind of the beginning of the season. The flowers seemed to be bathed in the mist of the mountains on the outskirts of the city, the flowers returned to the city with a wistful piano sound, the flowers entered the oil painting to live forever in the hearts of each person. The yellow dots lit up hopes from the endless white, the white and bewildered in the cold of early winter...
Then the flowers were all over the streets, and the young girls in Ao Dai holding flowers posted check-in photos so as not to miss the season. Only I silently watched the time, watched another season of flowers return to the wind and remembered those who had to leave this city. Making a living is like a fateful train urging us with a loud whistle. Bouquets of daisies were given to each other on the train platform, tears soaked into the color of the farewell flowers. The bouquet was still hanging by the train window but the homeland was far away behind. When will this city, this land of flowers return? I only know that today I will leave my fate to chance, flowers and people will wander to a strange land.
After a few days, the petals wither, their elegant fall signaling a shift in time. The seasons of flowers make the second hand of the clock seem to slow down, but soon the "ticking" sound resounds in the mind. November, December, the last numbers of a year seem to urge the urgent rhythm of life. Those who still have enough courage to wander are truly rare...
Daisy is like a lost note in a sad and desolate melody when everything is dry. Tomorrow, when that elegant flower is absent, the streets will be cold and rainy again, people's hearts will be empty and wavering. And who knows, in the depths of the sun and rain, we will see a flower in a painting, in a poem, in the intoxication of people's souls...
Source: https://thanhnien.vn/nhan-dam-cuc-hoa-mi-ve-pho-18524113018203665.htm
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