Then I was born. My parents called me as he was sentenced to know that every gesture and act of mine is beneath him, who have been able to fly, while I occupied the space of its own, the air in his words, all that remains for me great. There are no noises in the yard, the hens are strange fruits on the branches. The evening opened his veins on the horizon, and brings me things from another time. Many moons to come to me, when I look back I think the tracks are not mine I have left.
Morandome there anyone I know, we're two shadows beneath a star that is not theirs. Poem mother's life is a woman with her two hands to do what it takes. A distinct air of family joins me this dressmaker who took over thirty years in front of a Singer, who listens to radio dramas, and still keeps in a closet three navels of their children. What made this canoe wood is leading midstream without complaint, and believes that all evil is the well tied to the tail? How many deaths I miss me to like her?, To say as she says: "If you live as if you have faith, faith will be granted." Years before I was born mother hung a picture yet survives: Two children pick flowers at the edge of a cliff and a guardian angel to avert the danger by his presence. Tell mother the secret with your eyes, tell me how to get happy until the end, despite the deep, tell me, I'm the only dirty feather of your wings.