A golden braid is not a braid. It is, at times, a shower of delights dropping from a golden star. At times, it is a front stage at whose background I can recollect the neighing of white horses. At all times, at her presence, the audience becomes a train of knights in a lake of jealousy.
A black braid is not a braid. It is, at times, a wild night streaming from a lovely moon. At other times, it is a remembrance of a sweet forest. At all times, it dances to dark eyes which still pierce the rocks of my heart.
A silver braid is not a braid. It is sometimes a crescent flowering at a pure sky. At other times, it is a fairy tale, wherewith I wake up my fears. At all other times, a silver braid is a brutal barking in our bosoms.
A honey braid is not a braid. It is a garden hanging from a decorated past. Bees are sacrificing themselves for our sweetened kisses. Flowers pass too fast to be remembered. But the honey braid is all that together. It is the shape of a border between death and life.
A curly braid is a reading in the bottom of a coffee cup. Barriers are to be passed to other barriers. In front of the mirror we frame our smiles, silently shout at ourselves, while elasticity overcomes toughness and soft fingers weave together our rebellious hair and dig deep in our souls.
A braid is a wisp of wishes. When it shakes alone, we fall in love or envy. When two braids dangle from two horizons, childhood flows at windows and a small lamb jumps up to fix the rhythm of our heart beats.