She used to sing, then she started whispering like a wild animal with broken wings. She lived by the mountain, she sang by the river, and she got deeply hurt as she fought the bigger ones attacking, the furious and the vicious surrounding.
Frozen by her pain, dissociated, she looked afar while the little ones threw rocks at her, mocked her. As she stopped breathing, the river cried her name. Her name was Hella.
In the early morning, the wind told her someone’s story, the story of a nice life, a story of sweet love. She thought love was lost, she thought love was a ghost, a sneeky spy, an abnoxious lie.
She opened her eyes, she made a sound, it was as beautiful as a smile. Her name was light, Hella, and she came back to life when the moon crashed behind the river.
« When your wings get broken, when you feel dissociated, your story turns into a whisper that you need to transform into an amazing song again, the one that you first heard when you came to earth »
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