I am that lady who expert maga of fantasies, is placed in vulnerable, ridiculous and evidence. I am that expert illusionist, who creates realities of colors and smiles that are truthful without Viewer that meets with effort. I’m that happy soap bubble that floats with the wind that runs through reflecting and crossing, this fragile bubble that you reventaste already without touch, or rather, with neglect and apathy. I am that pair of large and open hands that held the most precious gift, those trembling and weak hands that now my eyes look sad, when the present was broken with a dry, dull and grey, incredulous and tosco backdrop. I am a girl and child look that rocking feet flat on the floor, sitting on the big orange couch, feared hoped and expected fearing and looks toward top with heart in mouth, intertwined fingers and a tiny smile; brightness in the eyes that asks, in sound and silence, not you to turn off them survive you. I am that Gypsy who finally unpack and installed in the only place that is invited to retire, stimulated to follow tired flight but no longer want it to.

I am the poet in silence, I’m silent singer, I am the book in code to think great minds, for the eternal conditioned; I am the heart that speaks only the language of hearts who discovers the differences in our distant languages. I am force am tenderness am wind and water. I am single. I learn. V. Original author and source of the article.