On the way to the fountain
There is this tree that we never cut down.

And its strain gripping the step to come
Steps back from trampling.

Wheel fittings 
Gave him many injuries.

The stupidities of the past
He forgot them.

To beautify the embankment
He blended into the short vegetation.

In defiance of the vulgar
He developed a love of holiness.

A gentle breeze can cool it
While he collects the bird droppings.

His lips part
To expose the depths of his insides.

Sometimes in the moonlight
Growls the wild boar with his shaggy face.

He is neither crazy nor wise
Just not knowing much.

A few drops of water falling from the bucket
Make its lichens sparkle.

So that he smiles
Just sit in your basket

Sometimes a couple stops in front of her open arms
Overflowing with the desire to unite.

It preserves life
He the resilient of the above.
 
He is in search of truth
Like a bubble of water falling on soft grass.

It doesn't make any noise
Forced to preserve what is.

When it seems to get rid of the night
It’s because the dew moistens it with kisses.

His, the irrevocable athlete
He is the champion of irreversibility and incommunicability.

He is expected
And don't weigh on the continuation of ideas.

His, with acute senses
From the passage to time flowing from the moment.

Tell him in his ear in the little leaves at the top 
That the origin is subject to unforeseen transformations.

You, in full availability
You, the mandala where the roots of good are affirmed. 

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