I saw her descending the crest in the rain that day. Head bowed and curved shoulders but with his unshakable pride and dignity. I ran into her, called her with my heart in her hand, screaming for her secret name, eventually I reached her and she turned.
Her gaze was opaque and confused, a tremendous unexpressed sorrow.
Where are you going?
Let me go, please.
Do not leave me alone, I can not do it without you.
Trust me and keep me in my heart, I’ll be there.
Then a handshake, a hug and a heartbreak between a smile and a cry.
She turned and walked in, followed her with a look until she became a point away, and I continued, and I continue to do so, chasing a white, red and gray whip from the immense and indomitable heart.
She was born in the rising sun of a rainy day, under a sky of weeping stars, fragmenting into the air, sheltering in a few silent souls.
And if you listen to silence at dusk, you will feel the crystal clear and painfully happy scrap of the deep and polychromatic blue scale intoned by the girl of September:
“I was born
With the morning sun
In a snowy day
Under a rainy stars … “