BITTER ECHO

The thorns are multiplying in our courtyard in a strange way. And my voice has become very faint like a child's doll kidnapped by wars. It is very easy to find here the bitter echo and the blind walk towards no return. It is also easy to stumble upon the stones of the path and the great ones and saints who do not leave you room to speak under the pretext that they are shepherds of nature and flowers in public gardens. I am not a shadow to admire their long fingers, and I am not a pale echo that knows nothing about the tales of the sun. This is my hand; do you see it? It is brown and very rough, and in it is a hidden legacy of endless smiles. 

How excited I am to find a life that hears and sees in the midst of all this death and strange blindness. How eager I am to shake hands with a bright day that knows nothing about frost and this captivating darkness. Everyone here sings cold songs and wears clothes that big mouths do not accept to be colored with a free color. This is how I am endlessly shattered; I meet my picture in the streets in ragged clothes, I tell it my beautiful disappointment and count what they stole from my little heart. I smile like a child drowning in candy and repeat like the rest of them words I don't understand. What happiness.