The leaves were eight pages yellowish, ripped out of a spiral notebook and margins filled with annotations.
Perhaps the popularity occurred since it was the last story of handwriting, before becoming blind.
I remember that man landed on the plain.
With flowers and a bird that accompanied him everywhere.
Summer after summer in the abstract possession disintegrated the bird.
A day earlier he had heard the saying of the soul in animals a seer.
It led him to a square, he thought that it would be his best cemetery.
He discussed the Earth and the environment.
Then, a boy, stroked it.
They tried to give him a prayer.
They did well and threw it with their miseries.
Misery or disappointments.
A drop fell of the face of the child.
The old consoled him with words and promised that he would not die.
At one time hated his identity. Its time.
It was little and even more so with the rain.
The masked man nailed you the needle too soon.
It was left without an eye.
They said that it was total blindness.
I have my doubts.
Remember that corner, it is to remind the bird; Don Borges found him there.
He covered it with a book and the thousand and one night was keep capped.
August 2015
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