Lump On The Gum Above Teeth

Lament unfinished educator

Small poucets I meet every day. Small red as chaperones. Lost in their forest, struggling with the ogres, wolves and bad witches.

They all seek their mom, their dad. The way they like, those who pushed this dark and thick mud. No small white pebbles return home. No seven-league boots. No consolation for Tinkerbell.

Sometimes Ogres have struggled. They devoured their childhood, little piece by piece. There is nothing left of their first years of life. It is the little lost children of the forest. They seek their way across the mountains, ditches, ravines.

Brambles are everywhere. Wolves are on the lookout. They will have to grow up in these woods of doom. It's a long battle that grow here, without being able to snuggle into the arms of a mother. Without being able to hide in the neck of a dad.

Small menders, draw a delicate passage through the bushes. They clear the way for these children to a heavy heart. At the bend of a track, others are finding their clan, returning to their homes. Small menders working days and nights, for all those stray toddlers. Small consolation ... Herculean task, constant renewal ...