There are tales of a land ruled by the quieter inner noise of crashing bodies into waves of a crowded reality, which smells like lemongrass.

It’s the folk’s gaze that narrates stories of warm dazzling skins and unstoppable harsh hands, seasoned to sacrifice, tenaciously pursuing the profession of a life, wrapped in a fragile existence that retains the deepest shades of the soul. Timidity warms the women’s round cheek, whose dense hair smells like life- protecting mothers. They fight against the fate of their impetuous creatures. Children resemble gazelles with strong and wary legs that rule the most reckless streets. Little heroes hiding in a world of a thousand colors, running for their families and their needs.

The maternal universe, cradling pastel-coloured hammocks, sincere the rest of that innocent creature who, growing up, will learn to hold his brother to his chest, sheltering him from the acid rains of this world.

This is the story of red dusts that rise in the streets of forgotten, desolate villages, animated at sunset by inhabitants who torch plastic flames.

Gauzes of electricity dominate the skies of blackened urban centres, penetrating the lungs of a placid-breathing people living in the street, where markets synching the flow of life.

In the meantime, the night roads are soiled with the murky water of the daytime life, where men walk peacefully in the darkness, while their hands holds nothing but a beer. Nothing is scary except for some wandering small beasts rummaging through black sacks.

As the world fights the war of uncertainty, confining itself in armored castles that drive away the “enemy” of the oriental nights, fragile houses sleep with half-closed doors, because human trust is stronger than any evil;

Seeking inside, the night life is consumed among the lights of a tungsten bulb that cheers tired and steamed bodies. The humble mouths welcome you with a gaze that suggests a knowledge of a past life. Our common language is not made of letters, but of lips flaunting reassuring smiles, stripping us naked, certain that we can trust each other.

I am at home on the sea shores of a river, on those mourning fields of palm and soil. In the nocturnal jungle blowing its music, I feel at home looking at the world’s highest peaks that protect man from evil.

The love of those lands has brought balm to my spirit.