There is a flower in my cell. I found it alone in a corner as if being punished. It burst the hard floor of cement and stone. It broke the taboo of being born in a cell. I saw no bird come in to deposit the seed. No one made a furrow to sprout it in, not a raindrop to make it bloom. So it was born, alone, in a favorable corner, aided by no one.
With it, already the cell isn't a cell. It's now a garden, a garden of one solitary rose, my incarcerated rose: a political prisoner.