The man was bent over in torrential rain, always present in the past, even though his soul was as light as a cloud. He emerged slowly from the mist numinous himself.
A hand guided him over the nebula barrier. He looked up to the sky, conifers clawed blue looking spasmodic light, of life, of the sun.
In front of him was an angel. For a moment he thought he could frighten him, and fled.
“I can not be afraid of you”, said the angel and shook hands gently, “you must not be afraid”
“Where are we? Who are you?” , asked the man.
“You’re in the Wonderland. I, we are the ones who have helped and that you tried to help. What he had hunger, thirst, fear, despair. That hurt, hit, maimed, special, tetraplegic. On the ground.
He wanted a gentle voice a caress one true look a sincere hug or a hand that I took away from the street praying to make it, a heart that never gives up, no matter what.
But above all, we are close to those that … “, the angel said to the man, pointing to his neck.
He realized that she was a small pink pearl necklace.
“Each pearl is one of us and you too”
“I’m not afraid …”, the man whispered, smiling.
The angel now returned cat and jumped on his shoulder and together they walked in the great Wonderland over there.
They again became each other brother and shared again the joys, the words and fears, in an everlasting embrace, while the new sun warmed them found hair and bones, happy to have found their warmth.
But were it not for this place suspended between us and our essence, truth and dream, reality and the crowd, which would have been our ontological columns of Hercules, we would never have found our limen, our source, our home?
In such rivers and springs we’d immersed in such springs and valleys kissed by the eternal sun of Noon, just for the hearts?
Such ridges we climbed shoulder to shoulder, looking at the hazy horizon, or sighting saddles with you on your shoulders?
And it would be light and intangible clouds after the last spring snow, under the blanket of galaverna between quivering shoots under the ground powdered by the first frost confused between light and shadows, between the light spring rain and the smell of wet earth, between the cliffs of the time and dream.
And we would have never found, and no one would have looked at us in the eyes because they saw their unexpressed and unaccettable pain.
And we would not have crossed our door is always open, but we would have been where the first glow of dawn light on our last day.
The existence ridge where we drank the light, unaware, while sostavamo the pool of water that we drank, and not the more we recognized it as such, we could no longer drink, our house there was a foreigner, and wandered tirelessly to regain the green pasture and shelter, with a long way to go, descending along the ridge, waving our old friends and fading off into the rain.
Leaving an empty sky of stars, falling together in the unequal struggle, and continuing to follow our paths traced in the grass and in the heart, chasing us and getting lost forever.
Crossing small promises of a new spring flowering timidly as they waited for the new sun a cruel shower broke, clouds frayed by the north wind, winter soldiers, lost and found millions of times, silent distant echoes of innuendo smiles.
But perhaps today, or tomorrow, or in a future past, but we could find and we always believe, for you.
And every day the tears would still be down, for the past and for the future, hoping to find that door.
To open it and find yourself there, where children can run between the drops of rain, and must not remain motionless so that their tears we get lost inside …