he couldn't bear it anymore. He sagged. He started to cry: roses But why roses? How embarrassed. I can't be that way. Oh, my God, it hurts me. Don't make me that way. Du Then suddenly stopped. It didn't make sense to have a sudden peace like screaming. Now, sitting in the fireplace was as strange as a quiet miller. He was watching, he was alive. He wasn't feeling bad. His thoughts flow spontaneously through his brain.
No, these roses aren't shameless. They only make roses and irons. I am the one who makes them shameless; since that time. I think my thoughts are. The other eyes see children as sensitive, wonderful creatures. Which one is right? No, good, not bad; they are beautiful, nor ugly. Like me… "
And the buds started to open. People who do it, the spell of corruption, are now foreign like others. And people who didn't enter the garden left the garden. The eyes that did not see the miracle, the hidden eyes hidden from the secret, the portrait of the bitten miracle, turned to the desperate and helpless view and turned to other directions. But everywhere they came, a miracle was hidden in everything they saw.
