And there will come a time when we will dream, not so simply, like a travel with closed eyes, no, we will exhale dreams through the pores and they will overflow our skin.
Around us, at our feet, are formed puddles of dreams and we walk between them, sometimes tired, pushing nightmares with the shins and other times happy and light, of charms that rise above the knees. We leave behind a trail of visions, a unique way of dreams, a winding path that deviates from the imminent threat ready to fade any dream.
In the surroundings of the way there are populated mountains of boulders about to roll, burying passions and dreams. We see, as we do the way, farther and farther away the start, the meeting point, the beginning of everything. Ahead, even raising the hand like a brim- the sun's future dims - nothing we can discern, excepts a road whose end is far more than the limit of vision.
And we seek the child in us, like characters from children's story we try to go back, retrace the way drawn by the bread crumbs of our dreams. Vain attempt, nothing remains of it except the footprints of birds and nests constructed in the forest of the trees of the time
And there will come a time when we look ahead, not so simply, look with open eyes, no, we will project forward all our wishes and we will dream new dreams, although repainted with the colors of the always dreamed