Phoenix Bird

Te presentamos este cuento en inglés para que tus hijos aprendan jugando.

In the garden of Paradise, a rosebush was growing under the tree of wisdom. A bird was born in the first rose, his flight was like a ray of light, his colours were magnificent and his sing was beautiful.

But when Eve took the fruit of the good and evil science and when she and Adam were expelled from paradise, a spark fell from the flaming sword of the angel setting fire to the bird’s nest. The animal died burned, but other bird went flying from the red egg, the phoenix bird.

Legend has it that he nests in Arabia and that each one hundred years he kills himself burning in his own nest and that from the red egg a new phoenix bird, unique in the world, comes.

The bird flies around us, swift as light, splendid in colours, magnificent in his song. When the mother is sit next to the baby’s cradle, the bird comes close to the pillow and spreading his wings, he traces a halo around the child’s head.

He flies around the humble room with the brightness of the sun on it and on the chest of drawers some violets emit their perfume.

But Phoenix Bird is not only the bird of Arabia, he also flaps his wings in the brightness of the aurora borealis, over the icing plains of Lapland and jumps among the yellow flowers during the short summer of Greenland.

Under the rocks of Falun, in the coal mines of England, he flies as a moth on the hands of the worker.

In a lotus leaf, he slips on the sacred water of Ganges and the eyes of the Hindi maiden bright when she sees it. Phoenix Bird! Don’t you know him? The bird of the paradise, the sacred swan of the song.

He was in Thepsis chariot as a talkative raven, flapping his black wings, the harp of the singer of Iceland was plucked by his red beak, on Shakespeare’s shoulder he took the shape of Odin’s raven and whispered to his ear immortalty!

In the singer’s feast, he fluttered around the hall of the competition in the Wartburg.

Phoenix Bird! Don’t you know him? He sang La Marsellaise to you and you kissed the feather which came off his wing, he came in all the paradisiac splendour and you may turned your back on it to contemplate the sparrow which had golden scum on its wings. Phoenix Bird! He rejuvenated each century, born among flames, among dead flames. Your picture, framed in golden, is hung in the halls of rich people, you fly often to the solitary adventure, made a legend, the Phoenix Bird from Arabia. In the garden of Paradise, when you were born in the first rose under the tree of wisdom, God kiss you and gave your true name: poetry!.