I sit down live as mature fruit. My heart has not been appeased still and, as a girl, I tremble with the dawns and late afternoons. I grow, but I do not learn to grow, neither get disillusioned, nor turn woman wrapped in veils, unbelieving of everything, being sorry about my luck. Not. With every day, me they are born the eyes of the amazement. If. It is true that by snatches I am sad and go out to the ways, release as my hair, and crying for the most sweet and more tender things hoarding recollections, and I am an infinite spiral that is twisted between lunas and the Suns, advancing in the days, exposing stars to rise higher, more above, giving him hunt to the air, enjoying myself in the being who sustains me, in the eternal tide of flows and refluxes that moves the universe And that stimulates the drafts of the land and of my soul.