Chapter 10 Sunflower Lost in 1890

There was fire in the Dutchman's eyes.Orange pupils.Some raging flames.I saw his pupils engulf me.I feel physically empty.disappeared into his eyes.It was a well of volcanic temperatures.The apricot-colored well, full of pain, surrounds me. They say it's called tears.It was the man's tears.I look at them.Curiously stretch out your arms to touch.Suddenly there was a burst of flames.Apricot-colored water pours into my body.Fight with blood.A group of angels passed by me.Quickly trampled over.They want me to say thank you in pain.I fell there, begging them to tell me the man's name.

In this way, my youth was ignited. You know, I'm in love with that man with fire in his eyes. They said the fire was me.That's what I look like.He painted me in his eyes as he gazed at me.I like the way I look.Like the sun in the western sky that I see many evenings.That is our refuge.I took them at their word, because the man was indeed a painter. But it's too bad I'm in love with that man. I also loved the hazel tree on the hill ahead before me, and I loved the cloud that brewed the rain above me in early spring.But this time is different, I love a man. We haven't had anything.He just came on many dusks when the sunset was extremely gorgeous.Come to me.With a drawing board and unseasonable sadness.With me in his eyes.He sits down.We face each other.He started painting me.Meanwhile the sun was down, and a few birds were fighting in a hazel tree which I had loved.Some pink and white petals are falling apart in the pool, crackling.But neither of us moved.We are still face to face.I feel like I'm being swallowed by the swirls in his eyes.

I squinted and saw my own top-heavy shadow.I am very depressed.It makes me know that I still haven't walked into his eyes.I'm still where I am.Did not leave a cent.He can't take me.He is done.He stood up, and the evening wind smelled of burnt palm leaves wafted around him.Yes, yes, there is a frivolous wind between us, a bird watching the excitement.They said my face was red. Then he walks away.Turn your back on it.Snapped.I feel like all the lights are dark.Because I can't see his pupils anymore.I could not see the ripples and searing brilliance of the apricot water.Light and heat died in the distance between me and him.strangled my gaze.I saw the mocking gleam of the moon trying to illuminate my disproportionate shadow.I knew she was trying to remind me that I couldn't get away.I know.I'm pinned here.

The man is gone.But I stood where I was and fell in love with him.The friend next to me reminded me to hold my head up.He insisted that I gaze at the slightly pale east.Head held high, with a stratus-like smile.That was my original image.I look around, this is my home.I was fixed homeland.like an amber.Dazzlingly beautiful, but everything is fixed, glued.I was suffocating in the clear.I glance sideways at my sister and friend.They don't realize that their shadows are ridiculous, they don't realize that they can't jump, walk or squat. They are just a few sunflowers.The heads and bodies of plants worship the sun every day.

me too.Just sunflowers. But I fell in love with a man, you know. Is the love of a sunflower as deformed as her shadow? I really want to pull myself up, a lot of the time.Although I know how ugly my feet look under the dirt.But I want to jump.Keep up with the man leaving.I hope he sees me.stop.We face each other.Among some bright halos.Nothing can block our view.Our line of sight is a straight rainbow.Happiness spreads into a vast expanse in the top red bar.Finally I said to him, I have feet, so take me away. There is such a legend: there was a beautiful fish in the sea.Yellow head like mine.Scalloped tail.

No feet either.She was just as bad as me, in love with a man.She finds a witch.She asked for her feet.She gave her.But her voice is gone.She was very upset and said she would have loved to sing a song to the man.But it doesn't matter, she has two feet.She danced many dances with that man.But the man's eyes were already elsewhere.She cannot frame a rainbow between them.She found that she had two feet, but there was no gorgeous road for her to walk on.Fish are anxious. What happened afterwards? I have no idea.How I want to know how the fish is doing.The man's eyes it saves something, can the feet reach a rainbow and run happily.

This is a story my sister told me.The plot is rough and ends abruptly.Then she turned around and flirted with the butterfly passing by.She often knows such stories from some running friends.Incomplete but fresh and interesting.She spread these like butterflies pollinating, very happy.Yes, she was happy when she told the story of the fish.She said the fish must still be worrying on the shore. But I asked my sister, do you know how to find that witch? My home is next to the hillside.There are scattered graves on the hillside.And little strange houses covered with wine-red creepers.When there is wind, the whole house is like a strong heart exposed to the outside body.I used to see that woman in black walking in.Her eye sockets were dark, and her pupils were filled with bloodshot like red filaments.It was her only ornament.

That day was a blue morning.The dew hit my hair and fell in a swaying oval vortex .They are together.I saw their simple lives, their frequent reunions, their quiet union with each other.I often see the wandering and reunion of other things.Am I not meant to be satisfied. I raised my head, and felt that the sun was far away this time.The days are always longer than the priest's hymns below the hillside. dead people.The coffin goes up the hill.I saw the colorful flowers, cold and gloomy.The dead always pay homage with some flowers.I wonder if they can only sleep in the pain of those flowers?

Flowers are cut out.Thin turquoise blood flowed from the collapsed flower stems.A person holds a flower in his hand, and the flower hurts very much.She couldn't even lie down for a while.Her blood smeared the man's fingers, clearer than the tears flowing from his empty eye sockets.I have often wondered if I would have to die like this myself.Standing, watching, blood dripping from nothingness. The first trip that flowers leave the ground is to see a death, and then they themselves die in the death of others. Everything is smooth and flat, and flowers are the rest of life. The standing dead flower had to listen to the man in the eternal black robe talk and talk.I turned my head away, unable to bear to look at this dying flower any more.

Then I suddenly saw the woman who decorated her eyes with blood-red filaments on the hillside.There she squinted at the funeral.She also wore black, but she had nothing to do with the funeral.I was so close to her suddenly that I could almost hear her snort. There is also a little wind that is entangled with death and cries and cannot escape, whimpering softly. She saw me.See me looking at her.She is very far away from me, but I believe she can still see what a different sunflower I am.I saw my anxiety and sorrow.I saw the sunflowers above the fire, and the sunflowers in my desire.I saw that I was in pain when other flowers died, but I still couldn't help but want to pull myself up from the ground, leave, run, and follow.

She came up to me.Standing in front of me, looking at me with pity in my eyes.She said she knew what I was thinking.She said she was a witch who could see the future and was willing to help me. Her voice soon became entangled with the wind, filling the entire sky.I felt dizzy, and she said to make my wish come true—I immediately thought of running, running like a person, panting like a person.Be with him like a woman. I saw this woman's slender arms reaching out to me and touching me lightly, and she said that you are such a beautiful sunflower. My eyes fixed on her fingers.Those fine wrinkles divide its integrity.Make it appear like a net.Broken and soft.Those dried fingers forced me to overturn my previous guesses about her age.I think she lived a long time.She said I could turn you into a human being.you can walk.can jump.Can follow your lover. Her words floated in the faint wind, and immediately formed a cloud that I wanted to embrace so much.I said slowly, tell me, what do you want from me in exchange.I know everything has a price.But I don't know what I can do for you, I'm just a simple sunflower. At this moment I was thinking about the fish that left the ocean.She has a nice voice.Her voice was swapped out.Then she had feet.Her feet hurt, but she spun sixteen times on the shining glass floor, dancing like a pale-faced swan with bright feathers.I don't know what happened to her after that.But I still envy her, she has something to exchange, she owes nothing to anyone.My voice can only be heard by butterflies, insects and this magical woman in front of me.This voice is small, can be ignored, and cannot be used for exchange. Her thin arms reached out to me again.touch me lightly.She said I want your body.I want all of you as a beautiful sunflower. I'm terrified of her.But I fell in love with a man.I have no choice.So I asked her how and why I wanted my body. She said, wait until a moment, you are another sunflower.You come back here.I want to take you to pay homage to someone.She pointed me in the direction of the funeral.She said, that's it, you are held in my hand like her.Then die. Am I going to be the end sign of my life too?Lying in someone else's gorgeous coffin, falling asleep under the incantation of the man in black?I looked at the dying flower down the mountain.She is dead.She was sleeping in a corner of the coffin with her head bowed.The blood was already brown and could no longer be clear.The dazzling spring that once belonged to her has been commemorated and sung hastily.She can leave with peace of mind. I don't want to leave my lover until I die.I don't want to tie my death to the death of a stranger.Nor did I want to wait until the coffin slowly closed, draining my last blood in the corner of that clumsy wooden box.But I can't describe my following and fascination with that man.He is like a cliff full of mountain flowers.I'm going to jump, it's nothing to be afraid of.Because this is a place full of echoes, I can hear countless voices resounding to continue my life.I have my feet and I follow him without fear. I think I'll say yes to her. Then I asked who would die. She said, a man I love.Ah, she said it was the man she loved.I looked at the woman wrapped in black.Her lush melancholy is better than any healthy plant.I am no longer afraid.She is an anxious woman.I am a burning sunflower.We stand together on a morning like this.There was a shattered-glass desperation in her eyes as she spoke.The early morning light shines on the broken glass, radiating despair... I want to be close to her, because I feel that the light of her despair can keep me warm.I thought if I could, I'd reach out my arm and touch her too. We should be sympathetic to each other. I said yes.I am willing to die as a sacrifice.But ah, why did you choose me.You are a person, you have movable hands and feet, you can pick any flower you like, the flower that your lover likes, and put it on his tomb.You don't have to ask the flowers for permission at all. She said, I want to find a willing flower.Let her sing along with the people at my lover's funeral, and she'll listen carefully to the pastor's eulogy.She will join the others in tears as my love's coffin closes. Both the wind and the clouds became lyrical.I started to like this woman.Her man must not like her either.But she tried hard to do something for him.Don't give up even on the day he dies. I said, okay, I will be a willing sunflower at your lover's funeral.Sing and pray for him.But you tell me, how long can I live with two feet? The resentful woman said, I don't know.You live till my love dies.He may die at any moment.Then you are no longer a woman.Transform back into a sunflower.I will break your stem.Take you to his funeral.that's it. She seemed to be telling about the fate that had happened to me.She arranged for my death.She asked too much of me.But when I looked at this extremely anxious woman, the love she gave her was ruined.I can always forgive her.I can't think of anything more wonderful than agreeing to her plan.I can grow a pair of feet, I can follow that Dutchman, and spread out into a wisp of smoke in the blazing fire in his eyes.Curly and tied with him.And after I die, I will be a sunflower with great compassion, comforting strangers at grand funerals.Both I and this woman who is in my sympathy will find comfort and happiness. Isn't it great. That's it, I exchange my life, and then become a woman who has not much time.I said ok.I didn't even ask what kind of a woman I would be.Obesity or aging. At that moment, I vaguely saw the sunny day in spring from her wet face in the rainy season. She said, then you are going to meet the man you love, right? I said, not to meet him, but to follow him. The witch looked at me and said, I will send you to his side.But you are a stranger to him, you understand that. I said no.He paints me every day, his eyes are all about me.I have taken root in his retina.Even if I become a person, he also recognizes me. The witch looked at me steadily.I know she is pitying me.My stubbornness and stupidity. So we both laughed. It was completely dark by then.Our conversation has come to an end.She approached me again, smelling as black as her clothes.I am full of surprises about the taste of black.I'm used to the bright yellow blasting the same flavor every morning.I think the smell of yellow is overbearing.With shallow hostility and contempt.The smell of red is what I often indulge in at dusk.Every sunflower is obsessed with the sun, but what I like is the sunset.I looked at the red head wrapped with red and yellow clouds, she is so different.What a bloody sight to hang yourself in the western sky. Of course, red can burn my indescribable desire, mainly because of that Dutch man. I'm in love with that Dutchman, you know that. A man with red hair, a bright red fragrance.There are a few faint freckles on his face, like cornflower seeds I have seen.But with the mischievous jumps of a ladybug.There was fire in his eyes.It reflects the red light of tolerance and erosion.I knew it would be softer and warmer than dirt. These reds make me really pop like a spring plant. The present woman is black.I don't have the vocabulary to compliment her because I don't know black.Black came to me with a green smell.I don't have the vocabulary to praise her and her black, but I like them. Her black color is like a fine coffin, no one would think of approaching it, but who can refuse it.People cursed it or ran away from it, but couldn't help but want to keep it.It waits in a dark place. At this time, the woman said that you are really a beautiful sunflower. She said, do you know what another name for sunflower is?Wang Rilian.What a nice name. The man's name is Vincent van Gogh.I couldn't read, but then I saw his signature next to his painting.I saw him draw me.It is my beautiful sunflower image from before.I see his signed name nestled next to me.Vincent and I are together.I can see that my branches and leaves can almost touch those beautiful letters.I want to touch them.my vincent.My Van Gogh. It was early morning when I became a woman.Everyone fell asleep and no one had nightmares.Very peaceful.I was uprooted.The witch grabbed my neck.Her fingers are like the icicles I dreaded in winter. I said I don't hurt.I am in love with a man.There was fire in the man's eyes.He's coming to warm me up. I closed my eyes and dared not look down.How ugly my feet are.They have reptile-like bones. I'm worried I'm going to run with them.I'm worried that I'll fall down and be separated from my Vincent.A group of angels walked over me, but no one told me his whereabouts. I'm cold.It's too early in the morning for me to see the sun.My family is asleep and I can't cry out. Dirt fell from my feet.They are the castles where I used to live.But none of them was as warm as that man's heart.Now I leave the earth to live in his heart. So my dear, why cry.I just moved. I came to Saint Remy.The sun and the river made me see a new shadow of myself.The shapely shadow of a woman.I walked up the path up the hill.There are many trees and few people.I saw the gate on the hillside, and there were patients standing outside in twos and threes.They looked into the distance with new injuries and old diseases. I walk very slowly.Because I'm not used to my feet yet.They are so strange.Like two frightened rabbits, walking on the ground in a trance.But they are so white.I have snow-white feet that are no longer muddy. I tense up.When I entered that gate, I saw many people around.I want to ask them if I am a good-looking woman.I haven't met a few women.I don't know how to comb my hair to be fashionable.Before I came, the witch in black combed my hair and dressed me.She said she didn't have a mirror, sorry. Mirrors are like eyes and lakes. I want to ask them if I am a good-looking woman.Because I used to be a beautiful sunflower.I once beautifully formed a vein of orange mist on Vincent's canvas.That's what Vincent likes. I'm wearing a skirt.is white.Like the color of those dandelions on the hillside.Slightly blue.It will be a little cold after watching for a long time.Maybe it's me looking at the sun for too many days.My white dress has no lace, but has a nice collar and train.This is a nurse's attire.I am now wearing a strange little hat, white and pointed, like a water lily that has not opened.I wish I had her beauty.My skirt is covered in tiny ruffles from being in the car for too long.Saint-Rémy is such a lonely place.The loneliness covered by the clouds, the patient's anxious eyes burned the grass on the mountains. I entered the gate as a woman, as a woman in a white nurse's dress. This man, this man has fire in his eyes.Still red and whistling.This red-haired, freckled man in a hospital gown was right in front of me.The man didn't hold a paintbrush in his hand, in the air, like a deserted tree branch, dried up under the cloud-sealed hillside.Can he draw again? This man still put away his paintbrush and walked away in front of my eyes for the last time, with hesitant fearlessness and undried melancholy.But he is no longer whole.He is disabled.I see his profile.I saw his forehead, his freckled cheeks, but his ears were missing.I see a hastily healed wound.I tried desperately to hide in his ocher hair, but I twisted myself.The brown scars were desperately displayed in the sun. How close I was to that ear.He is sideways, next to me, the paintbrush is the same color as mine, stained with my petals and pollen.How I wanted to speak into that ear of his.How I wish it could hear.He can hear.How much I want him to hear me say, take me away, I've been standing here for too long, I want to follow you.Looking at you, not the sun.I still clearly remember the outline of that ear.But it can't hear my voice. I was very close to him, with the exchanged woman's body, calling his name.I whimpered softly, trying to comfort the injured ear at the same time. He turned his face.He is so disturbed.He sees a complete stranger.The woman called him in a voice that was almost pleading.This woman is wearing white clothes and a hat, everything is very ordinary. I said very softly, Vincent, it's time to take your medicine. This is Saint Remy.The panting hillside under the cloud seal, the hospital, the gate, the patients, the confinement, the new nurse, and Vincent. There were many nights when I could stay on watch in the room next to Vincent's.At night, the sky over Saint-Rémy is extraordinarily high.The hospital was getting uneasy.I know how turbulent the patient's blood is.Often their pain tells them not to stop.There are strong guards at the gate.They are bad-tempered, violent, and like to flaunt their valor by pushing back resistance.I heard them fighting with the sick at night.I heard the sound of sliding.Blood, tears and sanity.This is a fighting arena. I am a small woman.They won't call me out.I stood in the corner trembling slightly.I'm terrified of my man being in it. I always run to his room.He sits there.Hands dangling in the air.On the table was an unfinished letter.He was quiet, yet tense. I say it's a cold night in Saint-Rémy.I sit next to him.He was wearing a linen broad shirt, and I saw the wind blowing in and hiding in his chest.His fingers are still in the air.He should have pulled his collar. Do something, do something, Vincent. How much I miss the way he paints. The sweet smell of the paint diffuses on the hillside of my house and sticks on my slightly raised forehead.That's when I got a fever.Has been burning, until now.I am now a woman standing in front of him with a fever for him. How did his nimble fingers wither in the warm air? Draw something, draw something, Vincent. The man didn't look at me.He really didn't know me, he thought he hadn't seen me.He must have been hurt, lethargic because of the injury.So too lazy to recall a sunflower.He sat in his frozen body, exercising its simple right to be alive. I want him to draw.I'm going to get a paintbrush.Finally shed tears before returning.I want to thank that witch, she gave me a complete body, and even made me cry.The tears are really beautiful, as beautiful as the rain falling from the sky.I miss my hillside, my home on the hillside, and the time I had to follow this man no matter what. I go back to the room.Put the paintbrush in the palm of his hand.He holds it.But he didn't move.My fingers touched his fingers.For a long time, our fingers were all in the same place.I sat down, as quiet as when I was a sunflower.I look at my finger, only it retains the beautiful posture I used to have when I was a plant. Kay. Who is Kay. Kay is a woman who always sits in his sorrow with a slightly serious smile. In his memory, Kai was always in a position a little higher than him, wearing black clothes.Kai shook his head and said no.Kay kept shaking her head, she said, no way. I thought of Moonlight when I saw Kai's picture.Sunflowers don't like moonlight very much.The sunflower worships the sun and the dense, solid light.But this cannot prevent the moonlight from still being a beautiful image. Kay is still a charming woman.With a hollow smile like moonlight, it is an illusion that no one can bear to expose. She shook her head repeatedly at Vincent.She turned away.She couldn't hear the scattered passion of the man behind her. a whore.Vincent talks to her. Vincent looked at the plain and simple whore with her pregnant sorrow.He felt she was real.She is not that illusion of Moonlight.She is neither lyrical nor freehand, but she is very real.He saw the sunflowers on the hillside wither or go away.He saw Kai's beautiful back.See the whole world fall in fog.He finally felt that nothing was more important than truth.He put a small flame of passion into her palm. Those are palms that cannot be closed.The powerless passion fell down, Vincent was stunned. Another painter.Talented.He came to Vincent's small room.He is so bright.He was so bright that Vincent could see his own little room glowing, but he couldn't keep his eyes open.He was held by his brightness.Can't move, no longer free. He wanted to work, eat and sleep with this great man.He wants to discipline himself along his pace.Because he liked the bright life of this painter.He wanted to leave behind the painter who passed through his life.He even repainted their room.Yellow, as I used to be.But bright people are always provocative.Did the bright man mock his life or despise his art? dispute.Rampage.It's raining heavily.The two men were torn apart by Art.How did that bright and great man lose his kind mouth.The murder weapon.Who is pointed at and who is hurt?The bright ones fled.The little yellow room dimmed again.Blood flow profusely.Vincent held the small part of his body.They are separated.He was so angry that even a part of his own body was leaving him. He is a crossroads.Many people passed by him, and he himself split into four directions, never intercourse again. I'm late.Dear Vincent.So many things happened before I came.I am standing in front of you now, but you cannot tell me apart.You can't put anything into my hands. I tried everything possible to finally come to you and follow you.Darling, I am the wind that will not dry up. Get well, I leave Saint Remy with you. Yes, I want to take you away.How about the two of us going to the hillside?We don't want to hear any cries.I won't cry anymore, okay?We can also see other sunflowers.I love hazel, let's build our home next to it.The leaves have fallen, thickly gathered.How good it is to gather together.Vincent, come home with me. I decided to take this man away quietly.Set off the clouds of oppressive breath that cover.We leave Saint Remy.I think just this night.I take him away.He likes me very much, and I always call him to take medicine with an extremely gentle voice.He will go with me. I'm in a good mood this afternoon.I learned how to knit from other women earlier.I knitted a red sweater for Vincent.The maple leaves are red and soft. I sat in the hospital corridor this afternoon knitting my last few stitches.I hummed the newly learned tune with a soft voice, and I became more and more like a woman.I'm in a good mood.Every once in a while I went in to have a look at Vincent.He is drawing.The spirit is very good.He also smiled and read his brother's letter. A little boy walks by with his storybook in his arms.He is a sick number.A pale and good-looking patient.I like him very much, and often wonder if I can raise a child in the future.I want a little boy like him.Beautiful, but I don't want him to get sick. The little boy passed me.I saw him often but never stopped him.I'm leaving tonight, maybe never seeing him again.I stopped him then. He has long eyelashes and freckles. I looked at him carefully and thought he looked even better. I said what are you doing. He said he came out to read story books. what book.I am curious.He obviously liked the book with the indigo blue cover and hugged it tightly. He thought about it.Pass me the book to read. I laughed, a little embarrassed.I said, my sister doesn't know any words.Will you read it to me? He said yes.He is a passionate little boy.It's different from the closeness of the men I like. We sat down.Sitting on the seat where I knit, side by side. He read me a swan story.I also read the story of soldiers with big leather boots entering the city.It was funny, the two of us laughed the whole time. Later, later, he said that he read a favorite story.Then he became sad. The story begins.It turned out to be the story of the fish.The fish that resolutely climbed onto the land and won its feet but lost its voice.The story is the same as my sister told.But I never knew the ending.Is that fish with sore feet okay on land? So when I listened to him, I became more and more frightened.Trembling more and more.I silently bless that fish in my heart. But the boy said in a very sad voice, later, the mermaid was sad, her lover had forgotten her.She can't be with him anymore.She returns to the water's edge.This time is early in the morning.She saw the first ray of dawn in the morning.She jumped down.Turn into a bubble.It refracted a lot of sunlight and slowly sank in the deep sea. After all that time, I finally know the fate of that fish. I do not speak.The boy raised his head and asked me, sister, it's just a story, why are you crying. On such an evening, the sanatorium in Saint-Rémy was sparsely populated with patients.There were still arguments and fights from time to time.Relatives and loved ones come to visit patients.Some people cried and some sighed. The boy and I sat on a bench with the afterglow of the setting sun and the scent of camellia in the cloister, and he read the story to me in its entirety.I thought of the oath I promised the miko.I think of the fish that fell into the sea.I should be satisfied that I finally know the end of this story.I know it, it's like I see it.I saw her jump into the ocean.She can sing again. I know, so I should know: all things are not perfect.Love was the hook on the throat of the fish, and the fish lost its voice.When she was let go by love, she was already struggling very exhausted.She no longer needs to tell. Love is also the hurricane that uproots me.I have no roots, no need to belong anymore.Now love will let me go too. The boy comforted me not to cry.He went to dinner.He said that his father would bring him the mandarin fish that he likes to eat at night.He said he would bring it to me at night.My father, he is still on the hillside, he must be shivering when the autumn wind comes. The boy is gone.As I suddenly felt the same.Here comes the witch.She stood in front of me.She hasn't changed in any way.Filament's eyes were piercing. She said her lover had recently died.She didn't go on.We have a tacit understanding.She believed that I remembered the promise. I'm going back with her.Like that fish back in the ocean. I said, please allow me to say goodbye to my lover. She followed me into Vincent's room. Vincent fell asleep on the reclining chair.Newly painted woman on canvas.Who knows who it is.Kay, whore or me. Who knows? We are old friends anyway. I covered him with the sweater I knitted.Red, warmer, my love. The witch kept watching the man.She watched him very carefully. Is it because she thinks the man in front of her is strange?Yes, he's missing half an ear and has a distorted expression on his face, even in peaceful dreams. The witch left with tears in her eyes. Goodbye, Vincent. The witch and I walked side by side on the slopes of Saint-Rémy.I saw the sanitarium getting far away.Lovers and noises are far away. The two women, the witch and I, finally had the opportunity to walk side by side and talk together. I asked, is your lover dead. I expected him to die, she said. I asked, can't you save it. My salvation, she said, was that I would go to his funeral. Yes, sometimes, what we need is to retain at the time of death but not really stay. I'm back on my slopes again.autumn.Desolation and the withered flowers of the year filled my vision. Is my home still there? Can my relatives still sing in the wind? I didn't have the courage to approach them any more. I walked around the hillside.I saw a butterfly that used to be friends with my sister.He whirls and sings around the other flowers. My sister, how is she? The next day, the witch washed her face clean and changed into another black dress.She said it was today.The man she loved is dead.The funeral is today.She said, you are going.I said, ok.Let's go.I'll sing funeral songs as loud as I can. The witch made me close my eyes. Her magic is the kindest typhoon.In a blink of an eye, I was a sunflower again.She held me in the palm of her hand, she said, I am still a beautiful sunflower. I quickly felt the loss of water from my body.But it wasn't as painful as I imagined.I smiled and said thank you. Her palm is warm.I used my body to support the heavy head and went to the funeral with her. The funeral was different than I imagined.Only few people.Crying is quiet. The witch went straight to the coffin.She doesn't know anyone.Yet she looked like a master.People on both sides made way for her.She is a solemn woman.She held tightly a plump sunflower.我是一株肃穆的葵花。 棺木很简陋。我看见有蛀虫在钻洞，牙齿切割的声音让要离开的人不能安睡。 我终于到达了棺木旁边。我看清了死去的人的脸。 那是，那是我最熟悉的脸。 我无法再描述这个男人眼中的火了。他永远地合上了眼睛。雀斑，红色头发，烂耳朵。这是我的文森特。 女巫悄悄在我的耳边说，这个男人，就是我所深爱的。 我惊喜和错愕。 我又见到了我的文森特。他没有穿新衣服，没有穿我给他织的新毛衣。他一定很冷。 不过我很开心啊。我和你要一起离开了。我是你钟爱的花朵。我曾经变做一个女人跑到圣雷米去看望你。我给你织了一件枫叶红的毛衣。这些你都可以不知道。没有关系，我是一株你喜欢的葵花，从此我和你在一起了。我们一同在这个糟糕的木头盒子里，我们一同被沉到地下去。how nice. 我们永远在我们家乡的山坡上。 我们的棺木要被沉下去了。 我努力抬起头来再看看太阳。我还看到了很多人。 很多人来看你，亲爱的文森特。我看见凯带着她的孩子。我看到了那个伤害过你的妓女。她们都在为你掉眼泪。还有那个明亮的画家。他来同你和好。 当然还有这个女巫，她站在远远的地方和我对视。我和她都对着彼此微笑。她用只有我能听到的声音对我说：这是你想要的追随不是吗。 我微笑，我说，是的。thanks. 她也对我说，是的。thanks.