His entire life was contained in those twelve revolutions of the sun all year long, he thought of nothing else once they were behind him, he took a vow to die. And for the five days that followed, the prince stayed there, drinking dark wine. His servants would lay out the lovely, murdered victims, their stems severed, heads pointing to the east, until only a single flower was left standing in the field, its petals offered to the first monsoon rains. At dawn and at sunset, he would pace up and down the field.Įarly on the seventh day he ordered the massacre. For six days he would sit on the floor of the wooden pavilion where he habitually went to admire the moon, drinking a cup of clear tea from time to time, and he would observe the flowers he called his girls.
It is said that in ancient China, during the Northern Song Dynasty, there was a prince who, every year, would have a field of a thousand peonies planted, and during the first days of summer their petals would ripple in the breeze.
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