the flying

I am alive like mature fruit owner of winter and summers, grandmother of the birds, weaver of the sailing wind. 

My heart has not been educated and, like a child, I shiver with the sunsets, I'm dazzled by the green , the marimbas and the noise of the rain in brotherhood with my humid womb, when all is more soft and luminous.

I grow up and I do not learn to grow, I am not disappointed, I do not become a woman wrapped in veils, disbelieving of everything, lamenting her luck. 

No.

With each day, my eyes are born with amazement, the earth born, the songs of the townsfolk, the arms of the builder constructing, the merchant woman with her bunch of children, the kids marching merrily towards the school.

 

Yes. It is true that from time to time I am sad and run out to the paths, loose like my hair, and cry for the most sweet and tender and I treasure memories sprouting between my bones and I am an infinite spiral that twists between moons and suns, advancing in the days, unrolling the time with fear or ease of manner, unsheathing stars to climb higher, even higher, giving chase to the air, rejoicing in the being that sustains me, in the eternal tide of ebbs and flows that moves the universe and that drives the round turns of the earth. I am the woman that thinks. Someday my eyes will light up fireflies.