to the childhood

Golden stars in a violet sky, Victorian dressing tables filled with precious jewelry, the distant sound of a music box that moves my hand writing this poem.

A lot of wooden toys in some house in my town, it has a chimney and in the sofa he leaves my gifts, Santa Claus, when he visits me in my eternal Christmas and youth.

And all the places are full of lights and trees with ornaments in garnet and gold, a lot of rag dolls, hand-made by little elves who work for me to be happy.

The sky is painted with watercolor, navy blues and purples, stars that shine more than ever in the city that gazes at them.

And in my bed there are freshly laundered sheets in green and decorated with trains that carry me to my dreams every night and take me back to remember.

And all my plushes are there, all of them have their name and heart, all of them are with me and sing me a lullaby so that tomorrow the sun will rise.

But I do not get sleepy so I talk to them and they tell me ll of their adventures and all of their travels and I smile thoughtfully while they talk to me.

And the chimney, its warm fire illuminates the furniture that smells like wood from my bed. And the angels with immense wings tuck me in my bed and sing another lullaby.

And I know all of the songs and I whisper them while they sing. And my eyelids close slowly until I wake up and it is a new day.

And there are still wooden toys, and interesting books, and stories to get lost in, and many music boxes that tell me stories, while I spend the afternoon in my pajamas.