Among the flock stood a small cub, apparently equal to his fellows. Same hair gray, same yellow eyes, the same howl. Same loneliness.
to look good, some subtle difference can be grasped easily.
While all his friends went hunting, he ... he was left alone, and lost to observe the gentle colors of a sunset, or the songs of birds away.
In his mind, for whatever error, do not harbor the spirit of a wolf.
It was only the bulky appearance.
and often dressed so well that it seemed one of many.
had a strange gift, if you can call it the gift of reading souls of others and to understand their nuances.
Per questo, nella sua solitudine non era mai solo davvero, che i mille echi che gli rimbombavano i testa erano una ben nutrita compagnia.
E lui ascoltava, e cercava risposte alle domande, o domande alle risposte, senza mai capire.
Coltivando il senso di inutilità di quel suo essere.
Finché un giorno, come un telo che cade, il lupo seppe.
Seppe ascoltare il saluto di chi se ne era andato senza volerlo. In un addio silenzioso.
E afferrò la mano che asciugò le lacrime.
E lasciò che il dolore si sciogliesse in dolce malinconia.
Sweet sweet pain. Lily had melted like a lump of hot coffee in the world. Maybe that's why he was still awake? For the sweet melancholy that the painful dissolution, for all that coffee that day had taken the place of blood that flowed by the gallon in her blood with the same purpose. To keep it alive. Not to put her to sleep, because sleep frightened her. Now he knew that sleep could lead to death. The real one. Not that apparent, from which one awakens. The sleep he needed was in turn need something that it did come from Lily, to caress the head could have done better than the spiders and the Moon. The good sleep he needed a story. A prelude to good night that would make it immune from the monsters that lived under the bed.
Lily was awake to hear that wolf gaze enchanted, fascinated by the world incomprehensibly. Perhaps more understandably by nature. Now curious about his lawn in which only sniffed his presence and that of spiders in burrows just under the ground.
Lily and the wolf looked into his eyes as he grabbed her hand gently with the mouth, pricking just because milk teeth are small pins for the leaves to fall more rapidly, that resist two seasons on the branches. The wolf saw that Lily's eyes were in need of close and dream. Including, for he was able to do that Lily needed a story. With a young voice, but he knew exactly where to start, he began his story. While Lily's already smiling. What
sing the monsters under the bed? Play. What
sing the monsters under the bed? Do not pretend not to hear.
Play.
If you listen to your fears, monsters and fear will disappear.
There was a small owl flew every night on the branch of the cherry tree that borders the east edge of the woods. It was a scary little owl. He feared that the wind was whispering leaves. She feared the light of the moon lit up the clear front of it. He feared the other night birds singing incomprehensible. He feared the lighted windows of the house three hundred yards away from the cherry. She feared everything that he could not explain. It was thought that the world beyond the cherry tree was inhabited by monsters. And perhaps it was. But the monsters that were not were those who believed the owl. And there was something that the owl was not afraid. There was something that the owl was afraid. And they were two eyes that were running, yellow to red, in a terrible roar that accompanied them. Little owl felt my heart in my throat and if he could run away, when the thunder started away, then closer and closer. But he could not escape, remained motionless and breathless as was his grandfather after being stuffed. He closed his eyes as soon as they appeared yellow eyes, and then reopen them when red, they were leaving. Then, one night. The leaves whispered read and hid the little owl, the sight of the stars that fell in cielo. Canti indecifrabili riempivano l'aria calda di una notte di piena estate. Le finestre a trecento passi dal ciliegio non avevano luce da una settimana. Il mostro arrivò, ma placò il suo tuono prima del solito. Il gufo aprì gli occhi e vide due creature che raggiunsero la radura illuminata dalla luna. Si sdraiarono sotto lo spettacolo del cielo, il volto rivolto verso l'alto. Il mostro le aveva partorite e adesso faceva silenzio. I due figli del mostro iniziarono a cantare mentre il piccolo gufo le guardava fisso, come solo i gufi sanno fare. Il canto era dolce e malinconico. Se il gufo avesse saputo cos'era, avrebbe pensato che il loro canto raccontasse l'amore. Quel canto coprì le voci degli uccelli notturni. Il piccolo gufo aveva ora meno paura. Non temeva il mostro che aveva chiuso i suoi occhi gialli. Le finestre erano spente. Le foglie fecero silenzio. La luce della radura gli permise soltanto di vedere quelle creature a pochi passi da lui. E a sentirsi meno solo. Il canto lo avvicinò al buon sonno, mentre arrivava l'alba. Volò via, promettendosi di avventurarsi oltre la notte seguente. Non aveva più paura dei mostri che credeva abitassero oltre il ciliegio. Che, visti da vicino, forse mostri non erano.
Se ascolti la tua paura, mostri e paura spariranno.
Lily dormiva. Gli occhi chiusi senza lacrime. La mano umida. Asciugata dal lupo, che l'aveva accarezzata con leggere testate, quando lei aveva cominciato Dream on, at the end of the story.
Sweet sweet pain. Sweet Sweet Dreams, Little Lily. This
singing dreams. Lily resting on the bed.
