The colors of the spring will be drained by night and frost, to remind us that our time is short, and our beauty will be lost. But in a terra cotta pot, near a window facing west, stands the patron saint of underdogs who manage more with less.
You're living proof that little things can reach heights thought impossible through discipline and skill, and a little force of will, and all the years we felt like dying can be chalked up to denying that we're slowly getting better, 'cause growing slowly looks too much like standing still.
Somos plantas. Somos tigres. Somos fuertes. Somos libres. Hacemos màs con menos. Y de nuevo, nos levantaremos.
We can bury pieces of ourselves on the side of every road we tread upon, and maybe something even lovelier will grow. I'd give up anything I've ever had to type in your coordinates, and put a lead foot on the gas, and watch the engine glow.
Somos plantas. Somos tigres. Somos fuertes. Somos libres. Hacemos màs con menos. Y de nuevo, nos levantaremos.
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