He is not my brother

Él no es mi hermano
Él no es mi hermano
Él no es mi hermano
Él no es mi hermano

He is not my brother. I don't know him. I never saw him before now. He ran from behind the little hill in which, a while ago, I left the goats alone.

He arrived here and, without thinking and jumping, got into the water. As, before, I had done.

I ignore your name. But I do not need to know what it is called to know that it is the same, almost everything, to me. And that knows the importance of this moment in our lives.

After work or school, on the long way back to the village, we were surprised at what we saw: the new year's water had arrived. Warm and dense. And with the moon in inside.

Our yellow water of every year. That visits us and allows us to play to be what we want to be while still being what we are.

Flexible. Able. Alive. Free drops in our world too full of repeated tears.

And that's why I know that both he and me, we want to stay here. Near each other. Wrapped by the soft water mantle, which already knows us because we open our hearts and provide our gratitude.

Staying here is what I want the most. And, although I don't know him, I know he feels and thinks the same as me.

Because I saw him running and, in a jump, falling into the water, happy.

And because I know that when you look at us, he smiles just like I smile.