THE PEACH TREE OF TERESA

She ran downhill as if possessed,
stumbled, got up, went on,
his injured knees bled,
as a freshly lit source,
her worn clothes, almost barefoot,
because his shoes said enough.
And as soon as I reached the plain,
washed his hands and his forehead,
to start the climb,
as if it were the first time,
to surrender to the vortex,
of the ferociously vertiginous descent.
Teresa was not crazy, she had fire,
of those who never give up,
despite having to go down a thousand times,
to be able to arrive at least once,
to water with the sweat of your effort,
the peach tree that crowned the top.