Monogamie à la Botanique

You’ve sold your soul to the devil so you may plant the most beautiful flowers in all the land and use loyal subordinates as stepping stones, so your talent can hover in the skies. Mocking angels and doves and shedding a cellophane tear when you need a compliment, or want someone to tell you how pretty your flowers are, when all they want is to put their jewels in your treasure chest you poorly covered in the vines. It stopped being a treasure chest when you showed it to everyone, but you never kept it locked anyway, because the real treasure was always kept in the attic of the little cottage, but I suppose we’ve forgotten where it’s stored haven’t we? Of course, you’ve no time to look for it, you have to tend to your famous flower garden.

Dearest Anna, your beauty truly is unrivaled, and one would think a line forms just to hold your filthy hand. Filthy for they’ve not been washed, from the cultivation of your flowerbed. No one says anything, because they don’t want to be rude, and because the flowers you grow are heavenly. More importantly, Madame Karenina, who wants to hear the truth? The flowers have been taking all the village’s clean water. The drinking water for the village is mucky, but the flowers are so beautiful. When the villagers become sick, will you then stop growing the flowers?

I fear the day clear water returns to the village, is the same day your flowerbed will wither. No longer will travelers come from all around the world to admire the once beautiful garden, and that scares you, dear Anna. What else can you do besides grow pretty flowers? Can you sing with the voice of an angel? Dance like the Czar’s daughters? Play the harp with an alluring melody like sirens in the sea? Can you speak the science of the stars? You only grow flowers and that’s all you’ve ever cared for, even at the price of villagers. their deaths do not mean they will pass on, they will stay to haunt until the flowers themselves refuse to grow, let alone open it’s petals for the sunlight. When the flowers wither, the green grass turns a mustard yellow, then even gray when the sun refuses to shed it’s light around you.

Madame Karenina, you’ve been quite selfish with your flowers, but it wasn’t the selfishness that balance was forced to happen. It was because you did not care for your fellow villagers, even the little boy who brought you fresh bread from the bakery every morning. You kept your gate locked, and still he brought bread every morning to leave outside your gate, until one day the village water took him back into the ground.


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