Andres sat down in the eaves of the Fontana di Trevi, in Rome, while rain fell fine in that initial day of spring. The temperature had lowered a little, but it did not feel cold, it was pleasant and the place a little less put into motion, since the drizzle moves away a little the tourists who costumavam to crowd one of the places most famous of Italy at that time of the year. He looked at for the fontana – the said source of the desires – with a lost look in some distant horizon. He looked at the currencies whose consequences danced in the small whirlwind caused for gushing out of the chafariz and of the rain drops that played with the surface of the water. that whirlwind, there so subtle in the water, it filled each centimeter of its interior transtornado under that external semblante so pparently and perhaps cynically calm.
But inside of itself, all the climatic storms if rebelled and its feelings if they debated. It looked at for the currencies in its hands, it thought about the much order contradictory, and in the end when launching all in the source it only asked for that the whirlwind if calmed and that to the end of the week, when it returned to Brazil, it only had calmness inside of itself and everything was well. It was arisen and she continued its walked by the Piazza. Soon the sun would leave amongst clouds and fine rain would be would be only in the wet one of the soil. Soon, its particular whirlwind would be only one yellowish souvenir in the panteo of its daily experiences and thus it followed in front, resigned, as he happens when he does not have more hope. When the hope fails and everything that surplus is the resignation.