Yesterday morning I barely open the window when a leaf falls on the sill. Who sent this letter, who brought it to me early in the morning?
I'll go and pick it up. I see that this is my leaf, a dry lime leaf. It's from Father Winter, sent by express mail, we'll read it when we know.
You don't need a pope's eye to see that, you can see it even if the tern has bitten this leaf. It looks like it's been coated with silver dusting.
- I'm coming with my whole army! - Father Winter writes on the dry leaf. - Ahead of me the cold wind, the hard frost, with me the bruise, at my heels the howling bellow. Save from us what you fear, hide what you hold dear.
You're a very humane enemy, Father Winter, and we thank you for your friendship, but it's of little use to us. A poor man like us has a house on his back and bread in his bosom. We have nothing in the world but a rose tree or two.
Yes, the rose trees! They make our lives beautiful. The soft petals of roses caress away the bread-winning care from our foreheads. In the shade of roses we learn a song from the nightingale. We have nothing but roses to give to those we love. Even Pannika gets teary when I tell her what Father Winter wrote on the dry leaf.
- Daddy, I'm crying.
- Why would you do that, my sweet bird?
- What else can I do when that evil winter is destroying all our rose trees?
Well, it doesn't destroy it. I take the garden shears, I take the shovel, I get the hoe - come on, Panka, into the garden!
- What are we doing there, daddy?
- We bury rose trees, Pannika.
The rose trees greet us with gentle compliments, as if they know what we are doing. The poor roses have been so badly damaged by autumn that they are stretching out their leafless branches like beggars:
- Help us already, sweet master! We have nothing left to do in this sad world. No more songbirds, no more gentle breeze. The dew is frozen, it cannot wake us! The sun is pale, it cannot warm us. The wrath of the gloomy winter-dew is coming: hide me from it, save me from it!
We want that, too, our poor rose trees. That's why I'm pruning off all these useless shoots, which will never bloom again. That's why I'm digging these holes, and even padding them with soft sand, so that your crushed heads can lie better in them. That's why I bend your weak waists, with tender care that they may not crack, with careful love that they may not hurt you!
We walk the rose bushes in order, one after the other, some of them are pruned, some of them are bent, all of them have their crowns buried in the ground. Let the evil army of Father Winter come! There is no branch to break, no bud to stiffen, no bud to wilt.
On the last branch of the last rose tree we find the last rose. Tiredly shirt-lounging, languidly smiling, and as soon as we touch it, it disintegrates. Once more its fragrance fills the whole garden, its petals are caught in the whirlwind, and carried out into the world, as many as there are. Take, wind, take the obituary of the roses, Take it to all who love the rose!
Nini, where the brightly winged hallway pill is crawling! She would fly, poor thing, but she floats.
The smell of dying roses lures him forward, the clown thinks he's gone wild again.
Go back to your dark corner of the porch, pious whistle, and hide yourself for the winter! That smell was for you, not welcome. The roses won't wake, they'd rather go to sleep now.
Sleep, dream, roses of our garden! The more winter howls over your graves, sleep the better, dream the more beautiful dreams. Dream of the resurrection, dream of Pannika's ringing laughter. Dream of green leaves on young branches, of buds swaying in the green leaves, and when the Pannika's bell rings to herald the resurrection, bring us the young branches, the green leaves, the swaying buds!
