I dreamt of you as a child.

Spring had come; it was a sunny morning; the air
felt fresh and clear. You were careless and joyful.
You played with your cat affectionately, and cheerfully
rode your pony. in a cerulean and white little dress.
Your pretty pale blue eyes shone in the radiant sunlight.
A delicate breeze caressed your fair brown tresses as
you ran wild with your dog through the grass, which was
almost as tall as you.
Mild showers and the sun had brought out a host of dancing
flowers; trees called you with the mysterious wisdom of
their ancient voices; swallows serenaded you
with their euphoric thrills.
All nature was a celebration, a magical festivity gleefully
speaking only to you.
And you talked back, in your argentine little girl's
language, holding long and ecstatic conversations with the
whole countryside: you danced with sunbeams
and sang along to the zephyr.
You were happy and I was glad you were.
Then, exhausted from your innocent games and smitten by
your sweet daydreaming, you rested on the refreshing and
fragrant grass of the meadow, lying down: your rosy, soft
cheeks pressed against the cool musk.

Your mother, then, called you from the house; your name
resounded in the distance, echoing throughout the silent
and peaceful valley, and, thence, reached me in my dreams.