He pointed at the river. “You can play there. It’s shallow. But not on the other side, because it’s very deep.”
“Now I’m going over there to fish. If you want to stay with me, you can’t talk. Otherwise the fish will swim away.”
I left him sitting there and went to play. To discover things. How beautiful that piece of river was.
I wet my feet and saw a whole bunch of frogs darting here and there in the current.
I watched sand, pebbles and leaves being pulled along by the current. I thought of Glória.
Said the flower to the river ‘Leave me, leave me be! I was born up on the hill... I will die down in the sea.’
But the river, quick and cold, With its mocking song, Raced over sand and stone, And swept the flower along.”
‘Rocking in my cradle, Rocking in my treetop; From the sky so blue Falls the clearest dewdrop!’ ”
Glória was right. The poem was the most beautiful thing in the world.
It was a shame I couldn’t tell her I’d seen the poem come to life.
Not with a flower, but with a bunch of little leaves that had fallen from trees and been carried away to the sea.
I wondered if the river, this river, also went to the sea. I could ask the Portuguese. No, it would disturb his fishing.
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