Illustration for a children's story

the village where childhood was a perpetual season,
with trees that knew my name
and paths that always led, somehow, back to myself.

I’ve lived in so many places that some escape me like dreams at waking.
Their names, if I ever knew them, dissolve like ink in water.
But there is one place that never forgets me, even if I’ve left it a thousand times:

I left home in those days when I scarcely knew how to name nostalgia.
First, it was school, with its bells that rang in a language not my own.
Then, work: cities like broken clocks, rooms without echoes.
Later, marriage, and with it, homes that were maps without legends.

Thank you so much

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