Travel the world, cross borders, and with you pass a memory that reduces time to years that may be very short in the life of peoples. When you land somewhere in this world, which is outside the terrain of our eastern region, you feel that everything in your life is changing, you feel that in those countries there is no word for menopause in their dictionary.
Life there for individuals is like a river, immortal, and continuous in giving, and the cloud rains the earth, and grass grows in the hearts and not among the grains of dirt. There life is a perennial tree, and it has no season.
Standing on the bank of a river, you find a man and a woman over sixty years of age, with the joy of youth on their faces, and in their eyes the sparkle of bright dreams, and on their tongues a flash of rapture that speaks of the rush of two souls, in harmony with the dance of the birds on the pages of the water, and in harmony with the flutter of leaves on the tops of smell.
You are walking in the street, and you come across a woman who raises her head to the sky and calls for the cloud to touch her cheek with a cold breath, reviving within her a memory that still preserves the friendship with a ripe childhood.
You enter a café, and you find a man of seventy or more, who celebrates the birth of the egg of life, with a smile brighter than a long-staple cotton. Everything there has passed the menopause, and entered the stage of endless juveniles, everything there paints a picture of the glorious life, on a blackboard that was not followed by the scribble of time nor the claws of misery. There is no one hiding under the worn-out sheet of impotence, there is life walking on untouched feet, rheumatism and depression, there are dreams like wild deer, leaping freely on the grass of joy.
There are wishes that remain standing, do not falter, do not fade, and do not extinguish a glimmer of them, perhaps because they did not cling much in the past, they became lighter in movement, more graceful and the noblest vision of life.
There is life for them, a path that leads to the river, not to the tunnel, so they are at this river, clearing the mind of the waste of history, putting their thoughts in order, and placing them at the forefront of history, not in the back car.
There they make a comb with a smile, sweep dry, frizzy hairs, and make of their heads like a hat to protect them from stingers.
There is the smile, an umbrella whose shadow floats on the faces, making it bright, dewy, spontaneous, bright, untainted by rust attached to the past, and not tainted by the dust of the future, they live the moment as it is and do not color time with the ashes of what has passed, or what may come.
There is the woman in her sixties, holding her husband's hand, and saying to him, "Here I am. Warm your comfort, and rest. In the veins of my hand, flowers grow in all seasons."