The poor boy had run without looking back, so that, when he had run a good time, and was far from his mother. Fresh, flowery valley, the butterfly spent an arid plain and full of brambles. The boy followed her to the plain. And although the distance and the race was long and fast, the boy, who did not feel tired, never stopped chasing the butterfly, which rested every ten steps, in a bush in a bush or a simple wildflower and without name, and always stood the flight at the time that the boy believed to have it already. Because, while pursuing her, the child had become a boy. And, with the invincible desire of youth, and its indefinable possession need not allowed to pursue the bright mirage. And, from time to time, the butterfly stopped to make fun of the boy, his trunk voluptuously introduced into the cup of the flowers and lovingly beating wings.

But when the boy approached, panting with hope, leaving the butterfly in the breeze, and the breeze was light as a perfume and so passed on that mindless persecution, minutes and more minutes, hours and hours, days and days, years and years, and the insect and the man reached the summit of a mountain that was not simply the culmination of life. Chasing the butterfly, the teenager had made man. There, he paused a moment to consider whether it is better to go back, because the slope of the mountain that he had to lower it seemed very dry.