These children are a handful of seeds thrown into the world. And they are sprouting here, in these photos or in any other corner of a favela or Rue Saint-Martin. They are the purity: like old people, to be closer to the origin, from there the vitality of gestures and little faces in awe.


The morning is theirs: they are projects of living, that is to say loving, commiting mistakes, growing. But better yet, if you look at them well, you can notice that they are pure life present here and now with their innocent laughter or sadness embraced by tenderness.


Because after all, even in the most obtuse adults, they can be glimpsed as the permanence of the seed that pulsates under the cement or in the snow.

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