Slow my pace on a wooded path.
I hear the quiet breath of the trees, while I hear birds and squirrels among the foliage.
They filter rays of a high sun, with difficulty you make your way through leaves and branches.
Every ray of light that breaks in several parts, seems to cover the wood of the festive dress.
I breathe in the air full of wet madness.
Smells, acres of mold and sweet flowers exploded to life.
Voices chasing each other in distant echoes change the course of my steps.
I hear the Argentinian rice of a tender child.
The heartfelt appeal of an apprehensive mother.
Loud and deep laughter of a loving father.
Around the dance life, a continuous vorticar.
The life that you hold between your fingers of a steady hand, the more you hold it, the more it slips quickly, like grains of sand.