Remember one has the child that shuts disease oneself, often let me cannot refrain from the ground is sad. Once, this child is playing the hand of a woman, on elevator, at the back of goods shelves, counter... he seeks mother in full world, get urgently sweating, pull demandingly like a trainset head pulling carry full angst, panic and sad old railroad car. Do not have a person to know, that woman that his hand lira wears is his mom. Mom complains none, resembling is he was lost really, be most willing to does the stranger with a kind-hearted and friendly, altruistic enthusiasm, will help " small tadpole " a place receives ground of a place to seek mother, recognize oneself again till the child. Hear a such detail, I sob unceasingly, and also sadness is reticent. When this mom is negotiating this detail, have a smile on his face softly however on the face, the sort of happiness in the eye wipes her look clearly brilliant is bright. She is in the child that tells about oneself, also as if the story in quote other. Is her life to suffer? Why to appear so lightsome warmth, bright beautiful pure and fresh? She tells with me later: I am living, it is an empty bucket originally, fresh gale once was puffing it rolls on rough ground, the sort of painful, what bump skeleton namely is painful... later, I admitted the child, blame a destiny no longer, however every day the happy small stone in picking up life, inside the empty bucket that throws oneself, abluent tear, melt into joyance. Slowly, empty bucket no longer empty, it becomes full easy, withy mercy, it is the bucket that has immanent weight, again big fierce wind also blows at one's convenience not to move it. This answer lets me touch, more let my suddenly see the light, like the large tree that sees a suit ray abruptly in darkroom, be just as outside the window suddenly sees he loses long already wing. |
Orignal From: Wind blows the bucket that does not use replete happiness
No comments:
Post a Comment