We are children of poor farmers, we have a bent back carrying heavy loads such as those of adults. Yeah, and why we should not do it, we can wear their old clothes and use words that they do not use anymore? We have hurt the thighs from the effort to walk with long strides as those of adults. Sure, it's hard to be like adults but what choice do we have left, since we have never been possible to be children. When, after an illness, back to school, the children of the rich peasants we whisper to the ear, but loud enough voice that even the master can feel, that passing from the road we have seen on all fours on the potato field. It is not true, because we may not have seen us we lie long lying between the grooves when the children who have the right to be children crossing the street. It 'impossible to hide the true nature of our disease because we never clean hands in autumn. We scratch but the land of October stays where it is, in the creases of the knuckles and around the nails. If any real boy comes to visit and wants to play its games, we feel ashamed, we bring it back to a garage where no one can see, there we play his little games: Of course we do not play well, we stumble jumping rope and pull the too strong marbles. That's why our playmates never return, they get tired of us soon, they say that we are clumsy and stupid. And it is true, with them we feel we like that. So we're happy when they leave, even though we know that they will not be seen again.