When we were young,
I mean, when we were more close to sense, farther from the mind,
we would love to sleep in the wild,
or simulate it by sleeping on the roofs of houses that we climb to, by an easy and simple stairs,
houses of our relatives, whose cities have not yet completely destroyed their lives,
our relatives whose still live in the “villages” or the outskirts of cities.
we lay down,
count the stars and wait for the “blisters ” to sprout in our skins*.
take off our shaky teeth with our hands,
close our eyes and sing nonsense songs,
hoping that the fairy of the night comes, so we can clutch the braids of her shaggy hair, and fly with her to no distance.
wait for the roof of the sky to fall on us, hold it with our feet, then push it high into the air,
or fly toward it, as the distance purity of the cement colonies, between us and it, carry us, such as feathers blown by a wind.
We were not afraid of the night!
and do not pass in our imagination those ambiguous questions that accompany it, that hide behind, a deep fear of restoring our sensory connection with the cosmos:
what if it rained?
what if night’s mosquitoes or day’s flies strip our skins?
what if the sun earlier shone and disturbed our desire to not be awakened?
we were not afraid to wake up then, but to fall in sleep what we feared of,
to miss something of the universe’s astonishment as we asleep.
We were not waiting to sleep to dream.
Do we remember when exactly the infection got us!
an infection of fear of awakening,
fear of that sleeping without a roof is not safe,
the fear which adults are fully aware of,
and know how to sharpen it with the flint of their defeats, then, under the pretext of love, they plant it, such as a stab in the back, inside us,
as children we are.
All roofs of the high buildings are closed, and its keys only with adults.