Peter

Peter considered himself a lucky man. At the age of thirty he had been lucky enough to see unique sunsets from the Himalayas. He had travelled all over the world and known exotic places. The city of Srinagar captivated him. The Hermitage and Catherine’s Palace made him dream. The Grand Canal of Venice was a gift to his senses. The unforgettable red sunsets of Santorini. And always accompanied by the love of his life. An extraordinary woman who was always attentive to his needs which were not few. For that woman he would have given everything he had, even his life. Her honey-coloured eyes always smiled at him. Her lips, sweet and fresh, were a source of love. Her silken skin carried him to warm, lazy universes.

The best moments were being spent as volunteers in refugee camps in the Middle East. Among the ramshackle tents they had met the most important people in their lives, the children, always cheerful, and their grateful mothers had given them humanity, much more than they could give them.

All those wonders he had seen, but all of them only in his imagination, because Peter had been born blind.

Peter se consideraba un hombre afortunado. A sus treinta años había tenido la suerte de ver atardeceres únicos desde los Himalayas. Había viajado por todo el mundo y conocido lugares exóticos. La ciudad de Srinagar lo cautivó. El Hermitage y el Palacio de Catalina le hicieron soñar. El…