bagatelle

Bagatelle You see the old olive tree  at the entrance of the village take it for granted until you see the tree is dying still, it has about it a non-communicative dignity an acceptance of life`s unplanned cosmic shortness. Dying slowly, a  botanist is trying new soil around  to get more mileage, but in the plant is too old, cow dung or artificial fertilizer can stop the tree   bark goes wrinkled, 300 years is enough To be dead is to be unborn there is no second coming Not even for a 300-year-old tree. The morning wakes us up with a dance of sunlight thought of buying a pair of shoes, bagatelles are the sum of our existence.