Childhood is erased,
on the strike of time.
On slate of the weeks,
the maternal love is written
at the present.

To remember his/her mother,
it is to turn while smiling,
most beautiful pages
album of its life
of today.

To visit his/her mother,
it is to return to the sources;
it is to illuminate its existence
and to pile up the memories
for tomorrow.

To lose his/her mother,
it is to say good-bye to its childhood;
it is to look with nostalgia
yellowed photographs
past.

When a mother from goes away
she carries with her
our most insane desires
and our unfinished dreams,
from now on...

And we remain the fixed eyes
on a fuzzy or precise image
at the horizon of the desert
our lives,
forever!

With those which live
in the medium of us and with
those already parts
for this elsewhere
from where one does not return.