the evening, after sunset, the ashen-haired beautiful girl makes new effort to squint the heavy iron gate. He opens a sigh, and he slides. The distance that separates the ground is considerable, and carefully dropped on the concrete wall. Finally, their little bare feet touch the ground wet and the grass tickles her fingers. The moon lights up your world, the silence broken by the cries of birds departing in the distance, in procession of a fishing boat, to loot the wreckage left on the deck. The breaking of the waves is to small a lullaby that rocks and calls the approach the cliff. His steps are short and insecure, his black gaze pours sadness, and his little mouth, dye mystery. The wind howls seriously, cut their lips and play cruel and deplorable the snowy gown enveloping, thin as a second skin, pale and slender body. Then the girl sits down to hear the sea, and embracing his legs trying to protect his body from the wind that passes through.
Even so small, you know, and to reflect and draw on their memories, was a harsh winter, which came in through doors and windows. All cows were killed and culture disappeared under an avalanche of snow. She was a mother, who tended the fire and preparing pots of water. It was a girl in bed, sweating and delirious, but actually was very cold. The mother accompanied her with calm eyes and wiped his forehead, reassuring at all. One day the girl was asleep as it was.
Tonight, after time, is the sea that takes care of the child. Compassionate but unflinching, it reminds you to go back to bed. She, good, follows and stands up. Groping and driven by the fierce wind that has not stopped roaring, returns to his home. There, his foot is with something strange, soft and warm. Looks like a bunch of flowers, fabric, someone has deposited an offering inert, away from life, and therefore may be eternal. The girl collects them and takes them to the chest, they climb the small wall and closes the gate. Lying and squeezing his eyes, still keep up drowning in their silence.
cloth flowers wither in his fingers.
Even so small, you know, and to reflect and draw on their memories, was a harsh winter, which came in through doors and windows. All cows were killed and culture disappeared under an avalanche of snow. She was a mother, who tended the fire and preparing pots of water. It was a girl in bed, sweating and delirious, but actually was very cold. The mother accompanied her with calm eyes and wiped his forehead, reassuring at all. One day the girl was asleep as it was.
Tonight, after time, is the sea that takes care of the child. Compassionate but unflinching, it reminds you to go back to bed. She, good, follows and stands up. Groping and driven by the fierce wind that has not stopped roaring, returns to his home. There, his foot is with something strange, soft and warm. Looks like a bunch of flowers, fabric, someone has deposited an offering inert, away from life, and therefore may be eternal. The girl collects them and takes them to the chest, they climb the small wall and closes the gate. Lying and squeezing his eyes, still keep up drowning in their silence.
cloth flowers wither in his fingers.
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