It really ought not to be this complicated, dear carambola tree. You, as a tree with flowers that look like products of an origami master, why are you this intricate? Do all products of beauty have to be complicated? And what about love? Does love ought make one miserable? That is not what I used to believe...
Then there is family love. This, I truly thought, would be simply giving and loving. Oh how terribly mistaken was I! My brother, Chinh, tells me not to be selfish when all he does is steel drops of my life to add onto his. His disturbed idea of egalitarianism does not seem to include my existence. He took away the only person that nourished me in this life. He took away my darling Ton. Now, since there is no one to nurture me, hence, I am a dying flower. Lovely cactus bushes, how can you live for so long with so little love? What has life given you that you chose to live? Oh beautiful guava tree! The inside and outside of your fruit are perfect contrasts: red and green, like Chinh and I. But they live along merrily, how?
Teach me dear sycamore tree, how can you open up your leaves to a sun that seems to me smiling, but burns your soul? How does it feel to be immobile and to simply observe? I am now one of you. Nothing I say is heard, nothing I feel is felt; I only physically appear. My soul is perished.
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