Fireball

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Reality.

Just like any other given day

On the blank page of life which goes on.

The rain fell during the night rest and the ground was still wet to remind us that life has still been while asleep.

The sun still shone, at the bloom of the new day, to remind us that our problems are not as important as we assume.

And the fireball, once again, raised high up, with all its power, in the incessant cycle of planet earth.

No, the sun will not fade, the clouds will not dry and the river waters will no longer be the same because we demand the world must fall down.

Some days will be good and others not so much.

Each with their baggage, some of them lighter or heavier,

But each one of us with our own baggage in the uninterrupted infinite life walking.

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The wind and the kite

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Light wind takes the kite

Loose in the wind

Made out of plastic that slowly rises.

Light the kite

Fly high

Like a cricket

Green in the open air.

High moon,

Magnificent,

White and alive.

The moon wanes,

Sometimes,

Along the wind

Tortuously blown

The green grass.

Rising wind,

Rising kite,

Rising the plastic,

The boy awaits

He arrives to the moon and comes back

Celebrating the sweetness of life.

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Late years

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Suddenly time has come… for what seemed would never become

His hair turned white.

His beard, previously blackish, gained light outlines, very light.

His face, before naturally stretched, became wrinkled, naturally wrinkled.

It was like a quantum leap.

He looked at himself in the mirror and, all of the sudden, did not recognized himself anymore.

Strangely, how even his eyes did not seem the same.

Before, active and confident, now shy and bashful.

Life has passed so fast, as he would never have imagined it would.

“lucky man”, he should think, as these are traces that he has lived, loved, got disappointed and learned.

But he was still not satisfied with what seemed his end.

He was suprised by himself, since his heart was gigantic and he was not conformed to the sad end that foreshadowed.

Sometime, somewhere, at some point in his story, he had lost himself and, now, in vain, was trying to find oneself again.

But yes, he thought, there is still time, since his heart was beaten like a boy’s,

His willingness vibrated as much as in his youth,

No, definitely not, life could not be only this,

So predictable and melancholic.

When had he stopped wondering about the world around him? Where did his gaze stuck?

Yes, for a long time he had no longer noticed the birds whooping at his window, the flowers coloring his garden…

Nor the children running by, overflowing joy at any school’s gate,

Nor the parakeets making their scandalous fuss wherever they passed,

Nor the stars painting the sky on special nights,

Nor the moon, strategically positioned to illuminate the most romantic dreams of dawns.

Oh, the sun… he could never forget the sun.

The sun, the great star, capturing energy to Earth, touching his slender body during every morning of his life.

How could have he forgotten to thank the sun?

And, now, that everything seemed to end, he felt a very strong loneliness within.

He then began to thank for every drop of water, for the daylight, for the little happiness to be drawn in the sunset of his existence.

And, then, life kissed him with a sweet and gentle wind.

And the late years were, undoubtedly, the best ever lived.

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