the moon watched your journey from afar.
An afternoon of joy received you,
while my loose childhood,
kept wishing for kites.
You came from your trip,
between mountains and,
you were the heroine of my stories,
still without knowing your stories.
They brought you from fields of sweetness,
to the savannah where the sun hides,
from the cold cement of the streets,
but you brought with your eyes,
the perfect tenderness,
of your childhood.
And I was still in the lot,
pretending to fly without kites.
You bloomed without blushes or songs,
transforming your joy into festivities,
leaving bucolic memories and crying in a trunk.
You grew up there,
behind the border of my loneliness,
and absent from my shyness and my clumsiness,
you grew up beautiful and strong,
that you were preparing the game again.
And we left, diametrical and absent.
And we live the exodus of the wind,
without even suspecting,
that we would be of the other,
the promised fate.