“Where’s the Sun go at night?”
“Why do trees have leaves?”
“So many questions, child.”
“Why’s the sky blue?”
“It just is, child.”
“If a June night could talk, what would it say?”
“Enough, child. I’m busy. I don’t have time for nonsense. Go and do something useful.”
In time she returned, “Look at my picture. Isn’t it pretty?”
“The colours are wrong, child.”
“I like the sky to be pink.”
The child grew to adulthood and had learned her lessons. She no longer questioned, no longer created. Imagination wasted time.
In a world full of colour and hope, her outlook was grey, uninspiring.