Dance with the wind - red monday

He was born from the kiss of the breath. It was divine, little child, with eyes - blue, with hair - out of breath, running again on my face. He loved running in the fields, there were your glorious fights. The fog drove the rod, mildly embracing your feet. And he wanted great to get up, to get your dad with your hands, his neck with the joy to embrace, ride with him in the azure sky. You, the daughter of the wind, careless, always blowing from the south.