The world in the puddle

It was in the yard of an elementary school, the all moaning seven - eight years old kids were cramming under the wide porch, pushed by the adults to hide from the thin rain; And he was crouched, there, apart from the herd, beneath the diffuse, shady light, indolent of the surrounding turmoil, the drops grazing his dark mane and running along his beardless arms, his big honey eyes focused above a newly puddle of fresh water; His innocent fingers were pressing on an ink cartridge, and the kid was floating through this entire new world pumping and spreading in the iridescent curves of the ink and water mixed; Near, enduring the rain too, i saw the beauty in the puddle and i saw the beauty in the kid experiencing the beauty in the puddle; The vision broke in pain and shouts when an advisor grabbed my brother by his ear to lock him away and lecture him about the sense of wasting materials and spoiling the school; At that time, petrified, i hated the insensitive adults, and i tell you now i haven't grow a bit recalling this misadventure as an observer, my heart swells and i'll build a wall of my body to protect the kid from the ones blind to beauty and conditioned against Dreams.