When women, the only mothers, go to sleep, must have the courage to stand in the shutters on the dreams of their children. Meanwhile, the fluffy clouds driven by the breeze that blows at night to the land from the sea, go to heaven, silent, different from each other by thousands. The shine from the moon, they become milk and turn into dreams. Wandering ghosts in the sky like the laundry on the rope dropped, forgotten in the night. Ghosts are good: to soothe. The kids, including pillows and blankets, sleeping in a nest prepared by the mother or the person who loves them and with closed eyes you can imagine the silent walk.
For every cloud, it took a billion centuries of work and time was never better spent! A small colored talcum powder appears to Julius, who do not know who is sleeping. One has the donut-shaped and smells of cotton candy and is coming for him, the sweetest child in the country, my son. I see a slender feather-shaped, lying like a mermaid by the sea, shine and brush his hair long and red, beautiful, sees in a dream, a child who is now crying. The cloud is perforated like lace for the little Joseph, the blue cloud to Martina, the little cloud to Stefania and soap bubbles for the children of the baker, everyone is asleep. But I can not wait for the big ones for the moms and dads and the schoolteacher and the doctor to the uncle and the pork and all those who've forgotten to dream. They
with narrow eyes, lying in odd poses and dirty, plugged in the smell of the rooms, the wonderful disdain. In the head are the thoughts of the problems and money and taxes and politics and malice. Even the mothers and fathers, poor dear ... But sometimes, a cloud silver and gold, run by the dream of lighting up the rooms small and vague, and perfuming the air with sugar, cinnamon and caramel powder and talcum powder and also the largest in the morning have a bit of blessed memory of childhood.
0 comments:
Post a Comment