Red Poppies

红罂粟

She was 18, her name was Alena. I remember her so young and naive, full of pristine beauty. With her delicate sight, she would pierce butterflies in my stomach. She always had a smell of flowers, mown grass and showers. And I also remember the blush on her cheeks – so embarrassed... Her brown braid-woven hair would nicely outline exquisite clavicles, and her lips resembles quivering poppy petals!