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"Unsophisticated and tender like a baby’s thoughts, the Sweet Peas came into blossom on the beds around the pillars and stands of the verandah, and soon, he fell in love with a dumb Marble, beautiful and ancient. The twiner was enchanted, out off his head, but in vain he embraced the impassive waist, blooming at dawn: the Marble was not made for somebody else’s happiness; the beautiful cold idol could not feel love. Now, autumn came, it grew colder, and the Sweet Peas began wilting. And the moss-clad Marble looked at itself in the mirror of the puddle and spoke with an air of importance: “The moss becomes me. But why I’m intertwined with the ill weeds?” Hearing that, Zephyrus the West Wind decided to change the Marble’s look. With the help of the army of grains of sand from the pathway, he joyfully and half in jest attacked the specimen of antiquity--and the Sweet Peas fell like a crimson snow of a dream." (Lara Biyuts. A tale in the manner of Oscar Wilde)

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