To all the mothers of school and for us that we are also a gift:
The thought of my mother, her memory is like a sweet wind.
And when the wind suddenly gives me in the face and temples, and I squint my eyes to see better, she beats me to it, from a sunrise in the garden with hands full of white roses, and red , and yellow.
O comes at night, just before bedtime, and go to my room, with a steaming cup of eucalyptus vapors, because I'm having one of the countless and lengthy convalescence of children. And she comes to my bed to cover myself and to securely hold the covers, because I am mad as I sleep like a demon of evil and I can dawn in the middle of the courtyard.
O is surrounded by my seven brothers and I, and also for girls, making us all pray the Novena and the Rosary, rushing to the sky for Chicha, most adoption consideration at the Conservatory, or for someone else to heal soon.
My mother is also the pure nostalgia for a violin. I speak of my mother played violin in the evening, in the gallery of our fifth of Rio Segundo. A violin that sounded sweet and sad at the same time, that one is gradually penetrated into the body. And the music sounded then as if from another world. And that music was for the banana leaves and the tender slices of rose trembling, Levis. Yes, because the angels had come.
And when suddenly I'm like a fool in the corner, not knowing where to take, simply because I saw a dove across the sky, or because I heard the ringing of a bell, then I can not help but think of you and bless you with all my heart. Oh, mother, hands full of roses, your violin that was the glory of the sunset!
