A cronopio runs across a solitary flower in the middle of the fields. At first he's about to pull it up, but then he thinks, this is useless cruelty, and he gets down on his knees beside it and plays lightheartedly with the flower, to see he caresses the petals, he puffs at it until dances, he buzzes at it like a bee, he inhales its perfume, and finally he lies down under flower and falls asleep, enveloped in a profound peace. The flower thinks: "he's like a flower."
Written by Julio Cortázar
Translated from the Spanish by Paul Blackburn
