I was born one day in June in Bogota a land of love and pain. The hills surrounded my childhood. The smell of eucalyptus and fresh rain are my first memories. 

I was born where the American continent widens its hips and dances to the rhythm of birds, in a country that has on its lips a love song that conjures up the life and death that populate it.

A voice brought from its seas smashes songs in my ear. The arms of a morena woman cradle me. A mother dressed in green hope faces the uncertainty and, dressed in music, deals with the adversity. I start to catch a glimpse of the day, to speak the language that is inside me.  I begin my journey with a song … a song to my indomitable desire of a free woman…

Behind the window of the backyard of my life appears a face lost in shaving foam. A tenor throws Caruso up into the air, waking up the children of the house with a melodious voice to a sunny Sunday morning. Everything is fine, he sings to us. My dreams of a young father are not dead yet… love is still around…

I see the sofa in the living room. From there five passionate women sing a prayer in communion at night. They celebrate life with songs. The rug where every afternoon, when arriving from school, the books rest with their owners, is still there. My second sister is with me, soft and sweet. We close our eyes to the Concierto de Aranjuez… another downpour falls outside… Inside, in the fireplace burns, along with the music, the growing desire to understand the confusing world in which we inhabit.