Scilla bifolia

Scientific description

Phylum: Angiospermatophyta (Magnoliophyta)
Class: Monocotyledonatae (Liliatae)
Order: Asparagales
Family: Asparagaceae
Common name: Alpine squill, two-leaf squill.
Origin: European.

Description:
A perennial herbaceous plant, geophyte, with a small bulb wrapped in brown tunics. It develops two basal, lanceolate, bright green leaves. The inflorescence is a raceme with 6–12 flowers, each on a pedicel. The flowers are actinomorphic, with 6 blue tepals forming a star-shaped corolla. The androecium consists of 6 stamens with blue filaments inserted at the base of the tepals. The gynoecium has a superior ovary, trilocular, with a short style and capitate stigma. It blooms very early, from March to April, being among the first spring flowers. The fruit is a capsule.

Propagation: by seeds and bulb division.

Ecology:
It grows in deciduous forests, forest edges, and meadows, from lowlands to hilly and submontane areas. It prefers moist and humus-rich soils.

Uses:
Ornamental plant, cultivated in gardens and parks for its early flowering. It also has importance for pollinators, providing nectar and pollen at the beginning of spring.

Creative writing inspired by Scilla bifolia

Written by

Vlad Jasmina

Andrada-Alexandra Lica

The Girl Who Returned as a Flower

Long ago, on the edge of an ancient forest where the trees seemed to carry the memories of every season deep within their trunks, there lived a girl named Viora. Her hair was as black as a storm cloud’s shadow, and her eyes were so deeply blue that one might think the forest had dreamed her into life from a sliver of clear sky. Her parents, two gentle and humble souls, loved her dearly. She was their only child — the answer to a prayer whispered during a harsh winter, when her mother feared her heart would never again beat for a child.

Viora was quiet, but her silence was full of wonder. From an early age, she wandered into the woods alone, walking for hours with no fear. She said the forest called her, that the air there was sweeter, and the leaves knew her name. Her parents watched her go, saying nothing, but always with a subtle worry in their eyes — as if they sensed that part of her already belonged to the forest.

One spring, late and reluctant after a bitter winter, Viora rose early and said:
“Something is shifting today. I’m going deeper into the forest. I think Spring is hiding among the shadows.”
“Be careful,” her father said. “The forest is not always kind.”
“If I don’t return today,” she smiled, “know that I haven’t been lost. I’ve only changed.”

She braided her hair, took her shawl, and disappeared into the trees. She never came back.

Days passed. The villagers searched. Her parents called until their voices broke. But the forest remained silent — as if it had swallowed her whole, without a trace.

Then, in a clearing where Viora used to sit and gaze at the sky, tiny blue flowers appeared for the first time. They grew in pairs, delicate yet brave, with slender stems and petals that shimmered like her eyes. None of the elders had seen anything like them.

Her mother fell to her knees and whispered through tears, “She didn’t leave. She became the forest.”

The villagers named the flower scilla, and in time, they called it Viora’s bloom. It is said that if you touch it gently, the flower shivers — as if it still remembers. And if you gaze at it long enough, you’ll feel a sweet, quiet longing, like a memory from a life you never lived but still carry in your soul.

And so, each spring, when the snow begins to melt and silence still holds the land, Viora returns. Not in footsteps or voice, but in the bloom of a flower that loved the forest — and stayed.

Fata care s-a întors ca floare

Demult, la marginea unei păduri bătrâne, unde copacii parcă păstrau în trunchiurile lor amintirile tuturor anotimpurilor, trăia o fată pe nume Viora. Avea părul negru ca umbra unui nor de furtună și ochii atât de albaștri, încât te gândeai că poate pădurea o visase dintr-un colț senin de cer. Părinții ei, doi oameni simpli și blânzi, o iubeau nespus. Era fiica unică — rod al unei rugăciuni rostite iarna, pe când mama ei se temea că inima ei nu va mai bate niciodată pentru un copil.

Viora era liniștită, dar tăcerea ei era plină de uimire. Încă de mică, se plimba singură prin pădure ore întregi, fără teamă. Spunea că pădurea o cheamă, că aerul de acolo este mai curat și că frunzele îi cunosc numele. Părinții o priveau, tăcuți, dar cu o grijă subtilă în priviri — ca și cum simțeau că o parte din ea aparținea deja pădurii.

Într-o primăvară târzie, după un iernat amar, Viora s-a trezit devreme și a spus:
„Astăzi simt că ceva se schimbă. Voi merge mai adânc în pădure. Cred că primăvara se ascunde printre umbre.”
„Ai grijă,” a spus tatăl ei. „Pădurea nu e întotdeauna blândă.”
„Dacă nu mă mai întorc azi,” a zâmbit ea, „să știți că nu m-am pierdut. M-am transformat.”

Și-a împletit părul, și-a luat haina și a pășit în pădure. Nu s-a mai întors.

Au trecut zile. Sătenii au căutat-o. Părinții au strigat până li s-a stins vocea. Dar pădurea a rămas tăcută — ca și cum ar fi înghițit-o fără urmă.

Apoi, într-o poiană unde Viora obișnuia să stea, au apărut pentru prima dată flori albastre, crescând în perechi, delicate dar curajoase, cu tulpini subțiri și petale ce străluceau ca ochii ei. Niciun bătrân nu văzuse așa ceva.

Mama ei a căzut în genunchi și a șoptit printre lacrimi: „Nu a plecat. A devenit pădurea.”

Sătenii au numit floarea viorea. Se spune că dacă o atingi ușor, floarea tresare — ca și cum încă și-ar aminti. Și dacă o privești îndelung, simți un dor dulce și tăcut, ca o amintire dintr-o viață pe care nu ai trăit-o, dar o porți în suflet.

Așadar, în fiecare primăvară, când zăpada începe să se topească și liniștea acoperă pământul, Viora se întoarce. Nu prin pași sau glas, ci prin floarea care iubea pădurea — și a rămas acolo.

Το Κορίτσι που Επέστρεψε ως Λουλούδι

Πριν από πολύ καιρό, στην άκρη ενός αρχαίου δάσους όπου τα δέντρα φαινόταν να κουβαλούν τις αναμνήσεις κάθε εποχής στους κορμούς τους, ζούσε ένα κορίτσι που ονομαζόταν Βιόρα. Τα μαλλιά της ήταν μαύρα σαν τη σκιά ενός σύννεφου καταιγίδας και τα μάτια της τόσο βαθιά μπλε που έμοιαζε σαν να την είχε ονειρευτεί το δάσος από ένα κομμάτι καθαρού ουρανού. Οι γονείς της, δύο ευγενικές και ταπεινές ψυχές, την αγαπούσαν πολύ. Ήταν το μοναχοπαίδι τους — η απάντηση σε μια προσευχή κατά τη διάρκεια ενός σκληρού χειμώνα, όταν η μητέρα φοβόταν ότι η καρδιά της δεν θα χτυπούσε ξανά για ένα παιδί.

Η Βιόρα ήταν ήσυχη, αλλά η σιωπή της γεμάτη θαυμασμό. Από μικρή ηλικία περιπλανιόταν μόνη της στο δάσος, περπατώντας ώρες χωρίς φόβο. Έλεγε ότι το δάσος την καλούσε, ότι ο αέρας ήταν γλυκύτερος και τα φύλλα γνώριζαν το όνομά της. Οι γονείς την παρακολουθούσαν σιωπηλά, με μια διακριτική ανησυχία στα μάτια τους — σαν να ένιωθαν ότι ένα μέρος της ανήκε ήδη στο δάσος.

Μια άνοιξη, αργά και απρόθυμα μετά από έναν σκληρό χειμώνα, η Βιόρα σηκώθηκε νωρίς και είπε:
«Κάτι αλλάζει σήμερα. Πηγαίνω πιο βαθιά στο δάσος. Νομίζω ότι η Άνοιξη κρύβεται ανάμεσα στις σκιές.»
«Να προσέχεις», είπε ο πατέρας της. «Το δάσος δεν είναι πάντα καλόκαρδο.»
«Αν δεν επιστρέψω σήμερα», χαμογέλασε, «να ξέρεις ότι δεν έχω χαθεί. Απλώς έχω αλλάξει.»

Έπλεξε τα μαλλιά της, πήρε το σάλι της και εξαφανίστηκε στα δέντρα. Δεν γύρισε ποτέ.

Οι μέρες πέρασαν. Οι χωρικοί την αναζητούσαν. Οι γονείς της φώναζαν μέχρι να εξαντληθούν, αλλά το δάσος παρέμεινε σιωπηλό — σαν να την είχε καταπιεί χωρίς ίχνος.

Τότε, σε ένα ξέφωτο όπου καθόταν, εμφανίστηκαν μικροσκοπικά μπλε λουλούδια, μεγαλώνοντας σε ζεύγη, λεπτά αλλά γενναία, με πέταλα που έλαμπαν σαν τα μάτια της. Κανένας ηλικιωμένος δεν είχε δει κάτι παρόμοιο.

Η μητέρα της έπεσε στα γόνατα και ψιθύρισε: «Δεν έφυγε. Έγινε το δάσος.»

Οι χωρικοί ονόμασαν το λουλούδι Σκίλλα. Λέγεται ότι αν το αγγίξεις απαλά, τρέμει — σαν να θυμάται ακόμα. Και αν το κοιτάξεις αρκετά, νιώθεις μια γλυκιά, ήσυχη λαχτάρα, σαν ανάμνηση μιας ζωής που δεν έζησες αλλά κουβαλάς μέσα σου.

Κάθε άνοιξη, όταν το χιόνι λιώνει και η σιωπή καλύπτει τη γη, η Βιόρα επιστρέφει. Όχι με βήματα ή φωνή, αλλά με την άνθιση ενός λουλουδιού που αγαπούσε το δάσος — και έμεινε.

La Fille Revenue en Fleur

Il y a bien longtemps, à la lisière d’une forêt ancienne où les arbres semblaient porter en eux la mémoire de toutes les saisons, vivait une jeune fille nommée Viora. Ses cheveux étaient noirs comme l’ombre d’un nuage d’orage et ses yeux d’un bleu si profond qu’on aurait dit que la forêt l’avait rêvée à partir d’un fragment de ciel clair. Ses parents, deux âmes douces et modestes, l’aimaient tendrement. Elle était leur enfant unique — réponse à une prière murmurée lors d’un hiver rigoureux, quand sa mère craignait que son cœur ne batte plus jamais pour un enfant.

Viora était silencieuse, mais son silence était rempli d’émerveillement. Dès son plus jeune âge, elle se promenait seule dans les bois, marchant des heures sans peur. Elle disait que la forêt l’appelait, que l’air y était plus doux et que les feuilles connaissaient son nom. Ses parents la laissaient partir sans rien dire, mais toujours avec une inquiétude subtile dans les yeux — comme s’ils pressentaient qu’une part d’elle appartenait déjà à la forêt.

Un printemps tardif, après un hiver âpre, Viora se leva tôt et déclara :
« Quelque chose change aujourd’hui. Je vais plus loin dans la forêt. Je crois que le printemps se cache parmi les ombres. »
« Sois prudente, » dit son père. « La forêt n’est pas toujours clémente. »
« Si je ne reviens pas ce soir, » sourit-elle, « sachez que je ne me suis pas perdue. J’ai seulement changé. »

Elle tressa ses cheveux, prit son châle et disparut entre les arbres. Elle ne revint jamais.

Les jours passèrent. Les villageois la cherchèrent. Ses parents appelèrent son nom jusqu’à épuisement. Mais la forêt resta silencieuse — comme si elle l’avait avalée sans laisser de trace.

Puis, dans une clairière où Viora s’asseyait, apparurent de petites fleurs bleues, poussant par paires, délicates mais audacieuses, avec des pétales brillants comme ses yeux. Aucun ancien du village n’en avait jamais vu de semblables.

Sa mère tomba à genoux et murmura : « Elle n’est pas partie. Elle est devenue la forêt. »

Les villageois nommèrent la fleur scille, et bientôt ils l’appelèrent la fleur de Viora. On dit que si on la touche doucement, elle frissonne — comme si elle se souvenait encore. Et si on la regarde longtemps, on ressent un doux et silencieux désir, comme un souvenir d’une vie que l’on n’a pas vécue mais que l’âme reconnaît.

Chaque printemps, lorsque la neige commence à fondre et que le silence enveloppe la terre, Viora revient. Non par des pas ou des paroles, mais dans l’éclosion d’une fleur qui aimait la forêt — et y est restée.

3D Interactive View

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Scilla bifolia

Scientific description

Creative writing inspired by Scilla bifolia

3D Interactive View

Authentic Specimen

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