STORY OF THE BIG MOUTHED FROG

The wide-mouthed frog goes hither and thither, hopping around the pond.
- Graaaa graaa, ciaaao I'm the wide-mouthed frog, who are you? - asks the buffalo who is in the shade of a tree.
- I'm the long-horned buuufalo, go somewhere else, stop bothering me.
- Ah! hello buuufalo with long horns, I eat flies and what do you eat?
- I eat grass, and now you've really bothered me!
The buffalo blows air from its big nostrils and goes away annoyed.

The frog then continues to jump here and there and meets a black crow.
- Graaaa graaa, ciaaao I'm the wide-mouthed frog, who are you?
- I'm the black runner and mind my own business.
- Ah! hello black run, I eat flies and what do you eat?
- I eat worms, and now you've really got me fed up!
The crow takes and flies away.

The frog continues to hop on the other side, on the water it finds a beautiful water lily, those plants that grow in ponds, and jumps on it.
A pike fish approaches it from under the water.
The pike fish takes its head out of the water and the frog immediately asks:
- Graaaa graaa, ciaaao I'm the wide-mouthed frog, who are you?
- I'm the luuuccio fish, dearest.
- Ah! hello louuccio fish, I eat flies and what do you eat?
- I eat wide-mouthed frogs! - the pike replies.

The frog, hearing these words, makes a tight little mouth, as when kissing each other and says:

- Hello, I'm the frog with the narrow mouth, sorry but I'm in a hurry.
The frog running away in hops runs far away ... boing boing ...

JOYFUL PLOTS

If you see something negative in the other, it means that you have something negative in you.

If one looks at others and sees twisted threads then it means that he often chokes himself.

The pride of the projection lies in the joy of seeing on the other what one believes not to see in oneself.

But calm down, no distractions because Anna Freud is still elaborating the game that the adult child plays in this society.

There is no restriction for those who look elsewhere.

There is no limitation for those who do not look at themselves at all.

Only one special saying remains in the arc of an arrow:

your grass is rotten because you don't water it.

But saying and not saying the things that are truthful is a sharp piece of whoever removed the score

from the piano to let the player invent it himself.

And maybe the musician is sitting hidden at the end of the hall enjoying the spectacle of the sound void.

Those who are used to following the notes do not know how to cook breaks.

THE CAT

The grass, the silence,
the moving of the shadow. 

Alone, in your morning cry,
the grass, the silence, the moving of the shadow
and the stalks of the wind. Your relief
is to see you calm while waiting
that I come from afar, your rest
is the hope of meeting in the evening
by chance in a winter.

Leave you to disappear,
to be your sky where you look
without remorse, have your regret,
your memory, your empty hands ...
Maybe it's sweeter to cry than to have me.

TEAR DROP

Every drop that falls on the roof,
I feel it
as if they were my tears,
tiny drops of water
that seem acidic
on my parchment skin.
The cold and thundering noise on the metal,
the air full of breeze
the taste of water on the tongue,
life in the woods, dormant for a few moments,
my composition of thoughts
among the crystallized grass.
A monarch with soaked wings,
won't stop trying
to fly
until a kiss of the sun
will not return it
Let me sit down
at the door of your gaze,
you want me to pass slowly
the threshold and you talk to yourself
with my silence,
catch my breath
in the canceled space.
Respect my privacy,
my prudence,
my dignity.
You are a lot to me
more than you think
and you give me peace
of those who have no defenses
of those who do not want
to defend nothing in oneself.
So I call you friend,
when we stand there,
silently listening
the rain dripping
on the leaves.
And I feel that with you
few things are enough
to be happy
until
my smile finds again
the eyes I had
when I was a child.
With you I can
caress the truth naked
on my knees
without rushing to define it.
With you they rest
the wounded words
and, trembling,
we take over
to open the pass.

A LITTLE LIGHT, A LITTLE PLACE

You did not notice it immediately, you were carried away by events. And when you realized how much the current had turned your way, it was late. Maybe too much. Perhaps. Was it the desire to change? To see life from another perspective, to lose certainties and build new ones? By your choice you have taken this path alone, provoked by a force that you have not tested, if not theoretically. And now only a shell remains of you, of your feelings, of what you wanted to say and that you have kept inside. This time it went like this. Again. In the darkness in which you find yourself, thinking about your mistakes and your flaws, there is a fixed point. A light that has always been there: sometimes strong, sometimes intermittent, sometimes dazzling, strong enough to illuminate the darkest nights and guide you through them. You were foolish to take her for granted when she never abandoned you and has always been there. And you love her, more than anything else, so much so that her horizons are expanding beyond yours, where you won’t be able to follow her. Where you cannot be there. She will never take flight, not of her own free will. Have you been blessed by some higher entity stirring in the chaos of the universe, or have you been tested by fate? How can you find out? Going forward. Always with that Light, inside.
I insist on not detaching myself from roots and shoots, I fight to remain attached to what I am, to what generated me. But the wind pulls, time goes by and I am more and more fragile, devoured by an immense curiosity to see the world. Slowly I detach myself, the tree cradles me for a moment in his slender arms, gently, and then throw me upwards, higher and higher, until my ears are plugged with violence, and the pressure becomes feel. Flight and flight, towards the unknown, towards the fog, towards No Man’s Land. I fly on the crest of the air, as if the sea were pushing me, and doubts and paranoia take root, the fog scares me, the sea is stormy, the future still dark. I fly and get scared, I’m afraid. Home Nostalgia also decides to join the party, and a series of mixed feelings try to slow my journey. I’m about to give in, stop flying, start falling. Until all the dreams, the hopes, the projects come to mind. All this takes me by the shoulders, and takes me back to fly, as if I had big wings to carry me. I fly and fly, and I never stop. The future is bright, the fog almost dissolved. I smile at what awaits me, meanwhile I fly.
We never stick to the present tense. We anticipate the future as too slow to come, as if to hasten its course; or we remember the past to stop it as too fast; so imprudent that we err in times that are not ours, and we do not think at all about the only one that belongs to us, and so vain, that we reflect on those who are no longer nothing, and flee without reflecting that alone that exists. The fact is that the present usually hurts us. We hide it from our sight because it afflicts us; if, on the other hand, it is pleasant for us, we regret seeing him flee. We try to support it by means of the future, and we are concerned with disposing of the things that are not in our power, for a time which we are not at all sure of arriving at.
I’ve learned that people are more important than anything else. Which is not the beautiful place, but it is the people who make it so. That you are never really alone if you carry someone in your heart. I learned that distance breaks what cannot stand and unites even more what wants to hold hands. I understand that you can go anywhere, but the most beautiful journey is what you do inside yourself.

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