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Reflections of a Dying Flower

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I struggle to keep my eyes from closing, trying to take in one last scene of beauty before I fade away. Shafts of sunlight stretch through the trees, and to my right a patch of vivid wildflowers grows. Katniss's tear-streaked face hovers over me, and I breathe out one last exhausting word as the horrible pain in my stomach crashes over me.

"Sing."

Music- it's my life, my joy, my one escape and now my last request. What else can I ask for? Through the empty bellies, the backbreaking work of Harvest Time, the poverty and injustice of life, singing has kept me alive. It softens the blows, makes things a little easier to handle. Music, it's the one thing of beauty my family can afford. I sing arias to the mockingjays, folk tunes to the flowers, ballads to the crops. I chirp lullabies in a clear soprano to calm my little sisters when they cry out from hunger pangs. And you know, I could swear it makes the crops grow faster, brings peace to the thin innocent faces of Poppy and Clover and Marigold. Music soothes; it heals.

Only now, as Katniss's lovely alto voice grows less clear and the world blurs to static around me, I know not even music can save me.



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kaleidoscope_girl said...
Sept. 21, 2011 at 10:08 pm:
Beautiful, I've looked everywhere for something about Rue.
 
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