Roselle

    I started to move to the sycamore tree. I passed through the tropical plants of roselle. I picked up one of its flowers. It looked like a jester's hat. Its color was crimson, the same as a cloudy sky after sunset. It had the same texture of velvet, or it was near to the transparent wings of fairies. I stopped by the old gigantic tree, watching its elaborate branches and its raw sycamore fruits. We used to flee from the scorching sun, hiding our tanned skins in the shadowy zone. There, we witnessed the daily birth of sun. We watched the moon's waning and waxing. We drew our dreams with colors of our own imagination. The train of memories filled my eyes with tears. I wept my tearful eyes with my dyed-with-roselle hands, and swallowed the bitter taste of nostalgia.