Iíve learned to listen to the silent winds.
The years that have passed
have left me with salt and pepper hair.
Sitting, counting dreams
on my wrinkled face.
So many dreams ran on my whole body.
Iíve forgotten the painful ones,
I do remember the ones that tickled me.
Making a whistle out of my fingers,
the raindrops consoling me.
Ran through the meadows, the ponds,
chasing gray rabbits.
The smell of wet ceramic tile roof
made me climb the terrace.
There up high I learned to daydream,
stretching my hands touching the sky,
slipping air inside my eyes,
the sun flirting with my naked soul.
The heart like a broken clock
refused to look below.
A basket under my arm
was filled with all I had in mind.
Nine years old I learned to milk the goat.
Didnít drink the milk,
spilling it on the kitchen floor.
Donít know if it was done on purpose
it had a nasty smell, like a dead herd.
Loitering by the fig tree
washed by the breeze.
When thirsty I ran to the river
where the fairies lived,
quenched my thirst with their dance and light,
eavesdropping on their songs
secretly confessing it to the stars.
Ten houses made the neighborhood,
the music, the laughter, the screams
became fairy tales with many dreams.
On the verada the flower pots were empty,
the soil expensive, flowers needed water.
Iíve learned to listen to the silent words,
seeing the world closely.
My aged body doesnít run up the mountains anymore
Yearning to sit one more time on the terrace,
with the basket under my arm,
sailing the sky, waving to God.