solo lamented his bad luck dreamer, a poet in his humble attic
:
- "My poems are worthless, because nobody is interested," exclaimed disappointed -.
"They are a waste. I was a dreamer to devote my time to them.
Instead work, as my brother, the blacksmith in a trade off
practical and concrete, I've been shaping for years
my poems, which are vague and butterflies.
My foolish dreams have led me to misery and at the end of my play is worthless! ".
Poor poet. cried, not with eyes but with your heart.
cried the poem of his sentence. Then the pink vase, you pitied
spoke
- "Do not expect others say they are great to be," he said.
"You should be, inside you, while others ignore it.
If you have inside of you happiness, what does it matter that others do not know? "
-" I do not understand beloved and delicate flower, "said the poet
envenecido dreamily. You are born to last a single day;
I, however, I was born to become immortal ...".
- "Also the poem roses wither," he said Rose, trying
to convince him of his stubbornness.
her perfume just stop the heart. When does the love?
How long a star?, How long does a tear?
And a sleep how long? No matter how old things.
enduring essence only matters ...
- "Sorry, dear Rose, if I offended you," the poet softly.
But ... ;
! Comprendeme! little thing I feel! I am no more than
a dreamer, I lived a dream misleading. Or perhaps, the sonnet
roses have withered my love ...". ;
The Rose concluded:
- "If you are Juan, Juan but
will still others say different name or confuse yours.
You have to be yourself at all times. The sun shines, but no one will look
, virtue shines, while some ignore it.
So beauty exists even if no one comes to recognize.
As the lone desert flower, maybe nobody
looking to achieve, but it will come
magnificent and beautiful anyway. "
" I never expect the prize of life
come from elsewhere, but from within yourself
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