might arise on the error, we can be born without love, we can be abandoned for fear we may be left for love, but surely we become "children" only when a new mom and new dad there to shake their hearts. Our life started by chance, our life drags on, living like a flower that flourishes in the desert or on a rock without anyone care for him without anyone noticing him. Our life unfolds only when the hand of our mother we dry the tears that flows through the cheek that nobody has ever caressed, when the father tells a story that our ears have ever heard. The arid desert is transformed into a garden full Flowers, our joy explodes when we cry out the word "Mom" when she, with just a smile or a glance, tells us "I'll always be" In our hearts, but there will always be a small corner for those who have gave his life for those who, perhaps out of love he gave us, for whom, perhaps, even today, has in his heart a little corner for us.
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