- Mom, what's life? How can I define?
- Hummm... when you grow up, honey, your're going to see that life ,indeed, is such a lovely mess.
- But...is it going to hurt?
- A lot.
- So, why should I be alive? Why do we grow up?
- Because life is also a lost piece of poetry, dear.
- Mom!! Great! Can I look for it? For the poetry?
- Yes, sweetheart , but now you're only six years old. Don't worry about that. Go to your toys.
- Ok, Mom. But what's poetry?
- Poetry , honey... is the only thing that save us from bad things when we grow up.
- I think I got it, mom. Poetry is like a pill, right?
- Yes, my little bee.
- Can I go now? Can play in the garden and talk to my flowers there?
- Sure! Have fun.
Identidade - “Um homem tem muitas mortes: aquela que irá morrer porque nasce aquela que matará o seu batismo ou o simples nome que lhe é atribuído enfim todas aquelas e...
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