Pressed flowers or pressed fairies,
it’s all the same to me,
a dream inside the pages of a book,
screaming to bring back a memory.
Of love or congratulations
or a quick and sudden end,
of friendly words and loving thoughts,
or of dear last moments
with what she thought was a friend.
Oh, give me that book,
to show my precious prize,
a simple gift of love
or the one of the fairy’s demise.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem