Fiction: The Butterfly - written in 1999 and poorly translated with Google Translate

Almada, 27 of March of 1999

It walked for the dirty streets of the city that had seen me to be born, to grow and almost to despair. It looked at for the cinereous walls that seemed to say almost everything, without having such pretension. E almost despaired. The walls were the same ones of always and the shouts that echoed in my head, also. Suddenly, something happened, the walls had been colored of some colors, many colors, already I do not remember which. The shouts had disappeared and alone it heard beautiful laughs, pure candies and. Pure, immensely pure, simply pure. Laughs of who do not wait nothing in exchange, of who wait to be able to give something, who know that we live, because do not wait everything, but because simply we wait something. E that “something” was this that now filled me? Not wise person. She did not want to know. Now she accepted the life with the same naivety that bébé accepted the o milk of the maternal seio. She did not want nothing, but only “something”. She only wanted re-to be born. E I obtained. It will be that now the butterfly already can fly? Perhaps, but exactly that it cannot, she is certainly beautiful.