"The first time I mentioned writing my biography, the tulips around me all burst out laughing, saying that only those with pen and paper can write.
Well, I don't really have that, but that's why I'm writing this. After all, he who has a "head" is capable of thinking. Since no one has been able to refute this argument, I have started to put it into practice.
I have almost no experience of the early days. What happened then should be written by someone else, who was already there when the old lady in the gardener's mood stuck the onion that hid my being into the ground and carefully pressed it into the dusty soil.
Probably, the spring sun and the May warm rains combined to give me the first tingling sensation, which resulted in the rapid growth of the green stalk that shaped my body. The unfurling of the leaves also brought back pleasantly tickling memories, but the real heady feeling came when my petals unfurled from the tight bud.
Oh, how I worried about their colour! Would they be virginally clear but uncharacteristically white, or would I have to wear garish yellow for the rest of my life? Of course, I was mostly longing for red, because it is the most beautiful colour, the colour of fire, and it also gives a youthful look. I was lucky, I went red.
Of course, there were all sorts of colours in my surroundings, even tabby ones among the neighbours, but I soon realised that was how we were beautiful.
My life, along with my peers, went on in the front yard. It was a kind of ornamental garden, with a group of rocks in the middle, and small green plants with foliage and small flowers with petals on the back of their heads. We tulips were in a semi-circle around the small mound, standing in tight rows next to and behind each other.
When the wind blew, we fluttered left and right like a sea of colourful butterflies, afraid that we would fly up. But why would we want to leave our birthplace?
Behind us was the wall of an old house, in front of us a rusty fence, but all this did not block out the world. It wasn't just the wind that whispered the news from the garden's far reaches every day, insects visited us regularly. Sometimes there was a little jealousy between us, when a bee visited one of our companions more often than the others, but peace was soon restored.
The old lady didn't keep any dogs or cats, there were no children in the house, and we didn't have to worry about being trampled, crushed or torn up by anyone.
It was a beautiful life.
It's a pity that these few weeks have gone by so quickly. The sun still kisses me, the breeze still carries the news, and the rain still brings me daily refreshment, but my body is already flagging. I fear that my red petals, once swollen with life, now stretched taut, will one day all fall away.
But what happens next?
Some of our elderly companions say they used to leave their bulbs in the ground after the petals had fallen. They claim to have lived through several such fine springs. But is this a reality or just unfulfilled wishful thinking?
I feel myself weakening. With a tremor, my last, most beautiful petal falls to the ground, a dream falls over me, and I don't know, I only hope, that a new spring will come for me..."
