She's all color and music.
From her big eyes full of honey, light gets all its meaning, dancing in the air and following hundreds of sounds and voices.
That's how she is: we have to know her and to be part of that world where everybody wear hundreds of bracelets, and where all ears and fingers are nothing but extensions of a wider universe in which we can manipulate invisible communication strings.
She's all color and music, and from her high-beating heart, naivety appears in the dimples of her cheeks, striking your soul without notice, forcing you to ask yourself where yours is gone. Because, for a while, everything is gone — no more rush, no more anger, no more reason to not hold her and hide her from evil.
She's not flower — she's not rose either — but don't let that fool you. The dark of her clothes are just there to retain the tides of emotions that would otherwise drag, with amazing strength, all her super powers, and expose all her beauty to a world she avoids to discover.
She's like hundreds and yet she's unique.
She's a stranger and will always be. We can try to catch her glow, read her lips, follow the movements of her hands or track her steps — useless tricks to an impossible harvest.
All she is is all she wants to show us.
She's all color and music. And she's my baby.
