A woman seats at the top of a mountain by herself. Her long
hair runs over her back all the way to her feet and beyond. Then in some point
her hair becomes a small cascade that runs down the mountain, and as it goes
down it becomes a river, a nurturing body of water that sustains life.
The women hands are feeding the birds, planting flowers,
painting colors in the sky, and cradling a little babe that sleeps comfortably
on her lap. There are many like her. They are the braves, the amazon race that
choose to nurture life, to stand and fight the war of indolence, abandonment,
and loneliness.
As the hours pass, her dark and shiny hair turns into a
silver stream of stars and her skin no longer young is now soft and wrinkle as
the skin of her own babe once was. She don't care, she embraces time. Even when
the cascade starts to dry, and the river become a small pond, she remains strong,
because she is one of the braves.
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