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MÉNARD

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Jean Ménard is a dearest friend of mine who speaks with the flowers. If he himself had not confessed it to me, never would I have believed him. When he was small, very often he would lie on the ground in the large garden of flowers planted by his            grand-father. Some of those flowers were rare specimens and they filled him with wonder. From afar they came, maybe from other planets or other stars…, like him? ...                     Today now aged of 87, he has weakened in his being; he has a hard time to stand up by himself after having walked so much.   He suffers to death in the solitude of the night, all alone with his story, living in collusion with two plants in his room. They are his companions in his cell, the only living beings with whom he can talk to at that hour when the day is phasing out.     My friend’s family belonged to the working class. He owes everything to the workers. He paid them in return by struggling and giving his life for them in