Last days of roses

Barcelona celebrates San Jordi, a day when people exchange books and roses. I feel sorry for the roses lying on  the counter, reminiscent of a gravestone. A plump girl with a ponytail plucks their petals, carried away by the wind. She carefully packs them into plastic covers and ties them with a floral tape.

"Roses," she shouts, her voice drowned out by the traffic noise. People walk by, seemingly indifferent. Sitting at a nearby coffee place, I wonder how many she will sell. Perhaps half, with the remainder discounted tomorrow? They will bring a fleeting joy to someone's mother, wife or sister, lingering on a windowsill for a few more days.

What about the others? This counter marks their final destination where they will die as victims of a fleeting human desire.

On my way back home, I spot an old lady, clutching a rose, smiling. At least, these victims were not in vain.