the miracle of the rose

By mistake of nature,

or design of destiny,

his first home was,

dry land, sad land,

where the sun punished,

without mercy during the day,

and the moon summoned,

in the cold of long nights.

On a mantle of oblivion,

his innocence gave him dreams,

his dreams strengthened his soul,

and his soul was filled with light.

And that bitter sky,

loaded with fake stars,

I sang to him when I shoot,

old lullabies,

it was softening his heart,

seeing her grow happy,

although in and of itself, he did not understand,

that gave him so much peace.

But she always knew,

that only she could change everything,

first as a seed,

break from some story,

then small bud,

as tender as his greenery,

and when their thorns grew,

He transformed them into hugs,

and immediately blossomed,

despite its strong environment,

who could captivate,

with its infinite beauty.

Its roots became rivers,

as streams of new blood,

that everything was covered,

that everything caressed him,

and before the eyes of fools,

and the absurd resistances,

populated with their offshoots,

every inch of the desert.