The day of the gardener

He was much different from what she expected. A white beard of the Santa Claus that lost his way in the snow covered mountains and reached the dry land of wild birds instead of his north pole house. He built his house on a desert surrounded by spirals of concrete serpentine. Snakes and eagles guarding the four gates of his tiny kingdom. There were no wells around so each day he would pour streams of words out of his mouth to keep his plants alive.
There were some bushes with thorns that could pierce the outer layers of your existence and leave scratches on your skin. He would often throw them into the fire during those cold nights as we all sat gazing at the flickering flame.
Sometimes a parrot would come. She would be seated quietly at the threshold and the fire would begin that silent conversation with her. I was always amazed to witness how the flame would angrily hiss at her when the squawking irritated his being, and how it would try to gently console her in those moments of audible silence that was almost unbearable for the bird. What was the bird waiting for by the fire? Did it dream of green lands somewhere far away? Or was the bird drawn by the fire like moths that died in the flames every night? Was the bird also destined to burn in the flames one day?
There was a tree with the dark reddish trunk and vivid green leaves that made you think of some exotic oriental painting. Wide branches and leaves so thick that they would always catch you if you were to fall suddenly from the sky. I saw that tree in the dream once. It was a child of the beggars at the train station. He without hands and she without legs... And the most colorful tree that was born as a result of their strange union.
There was another tree with branches full of pregnant oranges heavy like breasts of women who busied themselves with childbearing year after year.
A few pansies that reminded me of a princess I once knew in the land far away... Chaplet of flowers in her maidens days... A sword in hand that guarded her being from the dark shadows that would gather around her on moonless nights. A sword with which she wanted to tear all those layers of flesh and touch the soul of a wandering bard whose song remained in her ears for so many years. Did he return to her doors? I could not remember the rest of children fairy tale that I heard from my grandmother many years back.

Flowers, trees, bushes and the gardener. And me sitting in the corner of the hut writing postcards that will never be send again. Address unknown. The post-office is not responsible for the failure in delivery system.