My friends from Magone/Margarida street children shelter, let me tell you, even if it's already clear, have more life inside than a bottle of Champagne. I wouldn't live another minute without their truth.
They are so real when they are sick, so sick they look dead, because here, when malaria joins them, the fever rises so much that if you touch them you burn.
They are so real when they feel embarassed. Heaven! I had forgotten what it means to prove that healthy, genuine embarrassment in showing themselves, in public speaking, in greeting people. Where is such spontaneity in the world we know?
They are so real, when they slowly come along, after having been told what to do and then start asking you questions on everything, because they only know the piece of world in between the garbage bin and the street.
They are so real when they laugh and it's not like when our kids laugh and their eyes laugh as well, here when they laugh their eyes stay sad. That's the real thing, which can not be erased.
They are so real when they cry and so real when they play and so real when they look at the floor because you're going to leave them, but they don't know how to tell you they are sorry.
They are so real in their old t-shirts, in their torn pants, that every time you try to patch up and it is more to sit on the ground and get together to talk, that make them dress as you would expect.
They are as real as anything from the day when my daughters were born, and now their truth makes me weigh more this vain, useless lie in which I wallow believing I'm the one who knows everything.
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