Sometimes escape me some horses from the tip of my pencil, and in the prairies that i have never been i feel the wind draw the curves of my body. I am imbued with the smell of earth, the roots don't hold me and swung by the wind, my skin is confused with the tares and the wheat.
How wish I could be like the horses running aimlessly if I would, the clouds that insist on bringing turmoil would follow me and would turn into just fragile points in the firmament. Would experience in each fresh fruit the taste of a new world and this invite made by the wind, would cut my reins and chains; I would be free ...
But the horses only escape me from my pencil, they turn into prints, projections of the day that I will cut my reins..
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