Le Petite Dahlia

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Once upon a poet’s dream, a child played with a wilted flower. Pulling the petals one by one, she sang her favorite song. The sky was falling slowly behind her, the first snow flake landed on her little red nose. She licked it off and kept on singing about the stars that winked at her last night. With giant eyes and tiny hands, she reached out to the heavens, tossing the brittle petals one by one. She wondered where her stars went, and why they don’t say hello; she laughed and giggled and wished that she could fly to the stars that were her only friends. The wind kissed her softly, rustling her blue peasant skirt. She hopped up and skipped with it, wondering where the wind blows. Golden threads of silky hair whipping and tickling her little face, her eyelashes danced with the breeze. The sky was falling harder now, and her hands were red with cold. She kept on skipping, hopping, singing; the cold could not hurt her anymore.

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