And she's always there.
That young lady with wild hair, eyes as sharp as a dagger, the one with ideas in his head. With culture in mind, with dreams to flourish, where snow sometimes not allowed to grow it. She is the one with white skin, reflexes smoke and fleeting glances.
That girl with her fist raised and critical gesture, her eyebrows delineated demand justice and I believe her.
She, behind the scenes, leaving the art appear, leaving the creation come to life. She is the one that deserves the applause of those present and the attention of innocent people. Those people, if they know that the strength lies in her, the beauty of their own aspirations, inspired by her words.
That girl with tears in the night and pressed lips. That girl with pride and fear, defeating that fear with courage.
She is brave.
And she will never be silent.
She learned to defend, she learned to shout. Sing your name shamelessly, you are an artist of your charms.
She is the one with cold hands and calculations of ice. I intend warm with the love she wants, and I need.
That girl with the look in his footsteps, in the starlight, the lights toward the way home. She, wanting to share but staying in his head, his voice off, but screams again.
Stronger. Higher.
She is the one who should be.
That girl with the low reflector, but eager to shine.
She shines even without reflector.
It's her birthday.
And with appreciation, honor, tenderness and affection, I placed the crown on her curls, and I whispered across the ocean that she looks beautiful. More than anything.
A treasure that no one should look, rather than herself. As I did. As she taught me.
The years pass and she will leave breathless anyone who knows how much that girl with slight smile and a hand in mine, is worth more than simple ideas, little fears and impossible dreams.
Because she is possible in all her glory.
Happy birthday, my dear.
Love you.
