Eli Spivakovsky writes, Carl Scharwath shoots

Little flower growing through a crack in the pavement, through a crack in the asphalt, quietly and steadily. Push, push, little flower, you must assert yourself as you grow defiantly against the oppressiveness of what passes for civilisation. You must go against your gentleness a little if you want to stay gentle and call it growth as you rise towards the loyal and generous sunlight. The children are closed-up in their schools, the elderly are closed-up in their facility, the truly gentle are locked behind Doctor's doors, forced in prisons and only brutes remain, sizing each other up and spitting at each other with their eyes, never thanking the tram driver and forgetting to inquire of the cab driver about his day. Indifferent and apathetic, they go from A to B without heralding your soft subtlety, without remaking on your gutsy tenderness, not remembering that they are journeying as they aim only to be average, and without beholding the beggar, never looking down to the sweet plant and her nascent existence. Little by little, you provide an example to the downtrodden, a reminder to the barren, polluted city that she was once a field. An insult to bankers, an insult to corporate lawyers, you grow freely and completely for free. Oh, fragility, oh, vulnerability, oh innocence, oh humility, oh gentleness! You are up against it every day, pushed against the hard and cold machinery, thrown against calculators, shoved between the entrance and the exit of factories, against the intolerant selfishness that zig-zags through the crowded, molten markets and their aggressive game of consume and produce. Little flower, you are stronger than all the tar in all the world.

 Birth -- Carl Scharwath