The history of my steps.
This Sunday I have taken up again the step, I took the path for the step of the Indian Tucutunemo, that strong cacique that inhabited the valleys aragueños in those times when the same as I that day walked free to the wind with the eyes dreaming in the horizon that calls us to reach it, yes, he calls us to follow the spirited step for those greens where happiness lives.
When we arrive at the pass of the river that bears the name of that Indian, a heron that fishes in its waters augurs me a good trip, which encourages me to continue flying among the wild dust of that road, the music is heard from the beginning, because a Turpial with its trill to the leaves paints that landscape in the mind, are the kisses of the breeze that reach you as soon as you take the beginning.
When we arrive at the pass of the river that bears the name of that Indian, a heron that fishes in its waters augurs me a good trip, which encourages me to continue flying among the wild dust of that road, the music is heard from the beginning, because a Turpial with its trill to the leaves paints that landscape in the mind, are the kisses of the breeze that reach you as soon as you take the beginning.
Although the tiger hoarse in the mountain I have followed the path, he hides to smell my desire to eat tiger, I continue step by step tasting that green that blooms in the hands of the mother, my eyes enjoy the tender morsel that appears with each step, is the drop of the dew on which calms the thirst of days in the chair of that antique shop where the hours go, here in the kisses that the wind leaves the roar of the tiger leaves its echo, deep in the history of a madman who paints the doodles with the light, they see that tender mese the mother to her child when she is in her arms that dreams always that caresses.
I continue walking between that mountain that calls me, I don't stop although the legs complain because with the time on the chair they have left the force of that time behind when I dominated colts in that field, it is not the same saddle the saddle that that writes these letters, they are two different, both support the dreams but they take them by different ways, that unite on your eyes in the moment that the wind caresses you in that painting that you look at this moment, it is not the same moment the one that speaks to the one that makes you dream, but both are you living.
Imagine, I have come to you in that journey of dreams that took flight in the journey of the river that grew sent its waters to the sea to embrace his beloved there where the encounter united them forever.
After walking for hours I find myself again before the old lady who greets me from afar, her hair watches waving as she welcomes me back into her arms, although I do not want to leave the dream she also has her tricks with which she retains, it is another affection, although different the warmth of her coat slows the passage.
Camera : Panasonic lumix DMC-FZ50. Lens: Leica 1:2.8-3.7/7.4-88.8. Location: Villa de Cura.
@ ⓌⓛⓁⓁⓈⒶⓁⒹⒺⓃⓄ
Beautiful pictures :)
Good posts
Posted using Partiko Android