We were born on the ridge of the mountain after a summer storm.
Our first cry and our first look were concealed by the roar and thunder.
Our first breath the smell of wet earth.
Our steps always on the tip of mild and light leg.
We always need a sincere and spontaneous gesture, our feet seeking nests hands warm and cozy refuges of hugs, sincere voices and enveloping emotions.
We turn your head and we see our rough path dotted with pieces of ourselves in front of us, our future mirrored in who we walking by.
Just a whisper to excite us, we are quivering clouds in the blue sky, and the first star serotina, the last to be decreasing in the aurora.
Do not ask us to humans, ask the wind and rain, those who smile and cry alone, who will break your nails to climb the mountain that can not be scaled, who has tumbled down, who exceeds green valleys. Who do we look not to those who know us and found us not look for us.
Only those who have our dark path crucibolo can see us, touch us, love us.
Another waltz, one just before the lightning and the thunder take us home.
Where children can run between the drops of rain, and must not remain motionless so that their tears we get lost inside …