The Thorn’s body

I rise and my body warms up,

like a flower awakening to a new life.

Alas, the soil above me is hard as stone, dry and cold as death.

Desperately I try to break through anyway to catch my first breath of fresh air, but unsuccessfully I am pulled back down, suffocating and begging for help.

Is this it?

Will I really pass away in such a miserable way, a pathetic plant that doesn't even have the opportunity to come out to the surface for a moment and fulfill its role.

I sob and my tears wet the soil and make it so soft that I begin to break through and when I feel this spark of hope I push myself and dig my way up.

I grit my teeth, my leaves tear from the pressure but I continue toward the goal.

And when I finally show myself and the night air blows on me I smile but inside I am empty.

Did I not get what I wanted? Why am I still suffering?

I open my torn stems and petals and discover that I am in the middle of a pile of feces and instead of a beautiful flower I turned out to be just a naked thistle.

Disappointed,I bow my head down, ashamed of my existence.

But still, thistles are living beings too and they need love, they too were created like the others in the image of Mother Nature .

And I unfurl my leaves again trying to bloom.

And hardship is my friend and I push until I show myself entirely and proudly sway between the crack in the cement.

For me there is no garden, I do not deserve such luxury. I am created where I shouldn't be, where joy does not flow, where the soil is hard as stone and the eyes of the sun do not show.

Where a flower would die instantly, I thrive.

But not a single drop of water am I able to lick.

And look, a pouring rain is coming.

I,chest out contentedly and wait, but alas, under the old, once alive century-old tree where I dwell, the dried dead branches prevent it from reaching me and the surrounding cement has blocked me and my roots remain just as dry.

I push myself again desperately to shed a tear and revive myself, but in vain, I am already completely dried up.

A hoarse howl I let out hoping someone will hear me.

But who would pay attention to the prayers of a thorn?

As if to see the devil praying in a church and expecting salvation or a murderer asking for forgiveness.

And here I am, starting to slowly shrink, withered.

There is no going back, I fall deeper and deeper, but I am no longer afraid because at least I tried.

And I fought hard, so this is my end.

I close my eyes in anticipation and shrink into the dirt, until no trace of me remains.