Chrysanthemums in the city

Grapefruit blossoms, lotus flowers, and even daisies all enter the city like messengers of the season. While people head to the suburbs, seeking the countryside to enjoy the fresh air and coolness, flowers unexpectedly return to the city. The city is not lacking in color, nor in fragrance, but without flowers, the city would be out of season, the city would no longer be the city. The city is noisy with car horns, bustling with green and red lights, but it also silently awaits the season's arrival. Flowers follow people up to higher floors, into rooms; they are wrapped in newspaper, in paper with the emotional words "I love you" appearing after the doorbell rings… a blushing face, a warm embrace of enduring love from flowers like that.

For some reason, after wandering through the streets "invaded" by daisies, I felt as if I had stumbled into a fairy tale. This flower doesn't carry a rustic story, nor is it as elegant as lilies or roses, but rather the daisy is the song of the bird after which it is named. The nightingale's song, like tiny, clear drops, evokes a realm of emotion. The bouquet isn't elaborate, the fragrance isn't overpowering; the flowers seem to drift down the streets like a dream, carried by the mist.

The dream of the nightingale begins on a rustic wooden table, in quiet cafes thick with the aroma of coffee. Flowers and memories are enough to keep us alive with the distant recollections of our youthful and vibrant days. I once encountered an entire field of daisies in the cold wind of early winter. The flowers seemed to be bathed in the mountain mist on the outskirts of the city, they drifted through the streets with the melancholy of piano music, they entered oil paintings to live forever in the hearts of each person. A golden dot ignites hope from the endless white, the poignant white, and the bewilderment in the early winter chill…

Then the streets were filled with flowers, and young women in traditional ao dai dresses, carrying bouquets of flowers, posted check-in photos to make sure they didn't miss the season. Only I silently watched time pass, watching another flower season arrive, swept away by the wind, and remembered those who had to leave this city. The struggle for survival is like a fateful train, urging us on with its blaring whistle. A bouquet of daisies exchanged at the station, tears staining the color of the flowers of farewell. The bouquet still rests by the train window, but homeland is already behind us. When will this city, this land of flowers, return? I only know that today I will leave my fate to chance, the flowers and the people embarking on an adventure in a strange land.

After a few days, the petals wither, their delicate fall heralding a shift in time. The seasons of flowers seem to slow the clock's second hand, but soon that "tick-tock" resounds in our minds. November, December—the final months of the year—urge us to a hurried pace of life. Those who still possess the strength to linger in reverie are truly rare…

Chrysanthemums are like a discordant note in a melancholic, desolate melody amidst the dryness of nature. Tomorrow, when those elegant flowers are gone, the streets will be dreary with rain and cold, and hearts will feel empty and desolate. And who knows, perhaps in the distant reaches of sun and rain, we might find a glimpse of a flower in a painting, in a poem, in the captivating embrace of the human soul…

Source: https://thanhnien.vn/nhan-dam-cuc-hoa-mi-ve-pho-18524113018203665.htm