A beautiful little home, above whose roof the rain-drenched branches of trees swayed in the wind, for their leaves to rustle and play until the winds had put themselves to sleep.
An open quadrangle in the heart of the house, with plenty of plants for the afternoon sun to pamper and plenty of space for me to hum and dance around.
A shed in my little backyard, walled with red bricks and floored with stone, where I would gather bright little children in the evenings to choreograph a beautiful dance or play.
No great accumulations of wealth. No desire for fame. No heed of the worldly restrictions. No city life. A life surrounded by nature, children and their love. A life lived immersed in art, and cherished in the hearts of a few children of tomorrow.
That, as impossible as it sounds, would be the other life of mine.