' ' as the flowers of the field exhales its perfume through the pure air of the wind transmitting to the four cantos of the Land, not looking at distance nor if feeling with fear when seeing the barriers, the butterflies fly pretty looking for to show its beauty to the admirantes eyes that if can enjoy. I do not say for the fact of the sentimental exterior that express through one to look at the image that nor all we see, but, yes, for the honor to visualize the pure one. They are simple things of the life that make ours if to become the allure that inhabits the half human being. The wounds also exist who pull out tears of the beautiful eyes, dominated for the interior feeling of a lamentoso heart, observing the pages of the life and relembrando moments that if had become inesquecveis; taking to the force the joy of that instant, being launched to small the at the same time distant terrestrial cantos through the breeze of the wind or the extreme force of a weather, and, as exhaling of the perfume of the flowers, she comes back again to the heart of somebody, entering slowly and fixed to going deep itself the chest, passing for itself to feel the tears to wash the face and the enormous squeeze of saudade.' '.