In winter inside it was so mild … joy farandole of laughter and jostling sounded the infinite lengthening of the time of childhood .
A tug … the curtains drawn … mattresses cushions blankets and foam squares piled up … gigantic symposium of the physical and vocal creativities of a push first jump .
In winter the words that we throw are the hook of the cracks of memory … only remains the crumpling of gift wraps lying in a ball along the walls .
In winter there is places conducive to daily crossings for even more pleasure collide with voice and gesture the scheduling of adults .
In winter the soup is hot … it burns the tongue and makes us blow on the contents of the spoon … then rises the slow tides good for eating and sleeping … in the evening when the merchant of sand will pass .
In winter no of salamalecs … nothing but laughing eyes that the verses of the song evacuate in the rural break of a chorus known by all .
In winter we put hat and mittens to better see the sunset … in catimini … when the garlands of light look like fireflies at the beginning of a distant morning .
Children know that winter is sweet to those who know how to love … and that by having fun and respecting each other we weave the fabric of the days to come … traditional way of storing the ingredients needed to make the bread of tomorrow .
178