STORY OF A GHOST

The butterflies that fluttered blissfully from flower to flower, those singular flowers from different places, from different worlds, but I admit it ... I too was certainly not common, a totally singular construction.

A gazebo with some vague hint of oriental, the fulcrum of a colorful and well-kept garden, a part of children running around mockingly trying to catch themselves.

Mothers groan trying to get them back on the way home every morning and every afternoon.

In the evening it made me more curious, some couples arm in arm that reached me through the pebble and exchanged a few hasty kisses or even those who greeted each other and then began to have those group chats that lasted until late now.

Certainly the night was magical ... the silence began to dominate, the fireflies were my only companions even if far away and the always frenetic city around me began to silence.

The days went on and the changing of the seasons certainly did not tire or disappoint me, the rainy days brought me someone who nervously found shelter under me and waited for a moment of respite, the snow instead hypnotized me but bothered someone who, armed with a shovel, had to clean me. 

The years went by happily and the children who cried had grown old and often sat on newly placed benches and admired my garnet color, the progress of time led to changes and year after year my fantastic garden began to recede and my vision diminished.

To reach me now it was necessary to look for me a little more, but the visits certainly did not disappear.

One day it was carved on one of my columns, it squeezed my heart, a girl accompanied an advanced woman with the help of a stick who went up and looking at me told that her first kiss had exactly given it there, against one of mine columns, but strangely she was crying and I didn't understand ... she did it as if I were no longer there.

Well, a short time passed after I understood that cry ... other buildings overwhelmed me shortly after and the view no longer even existed, the children were a distant memory like the flowers and butterflies ... the magical world that surrounded me had been turned into concrete and suddenly my life was taken from me by a very cruel progress.

I was a fulcrum, I was life, now I am kissed by the sun and barely remembered by stories handed down, of those who have enjoyed the happy past of a small gazebo now hidden that can only look through a gate.

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