Carmina Burana had no words. I listened to everyone's words. I also felt them: I felt sweet words. And other salty like waves. Soft words like a cushion. And tough as iron.   When Carmina Burana opened her mouth to say "beach", the sand surrounded her with a whirlpool. If he said "bird", benteveos, calandrias and blackbirds fluttered around him. But no one heard his words. They flew like butterflies in the silence of the siesta. It was as if the sea mist absorbed the sounds from her golden throat and a gauze veil surrounded the girl's silhouette.   Carmina Burana would go into the forest and keep quiet. He was stepping on the mattress of grass and needles. It felt transparent and light. He listened to the branches that creaked, the leaves that trembled, his light footsteps, his heart beat agitated.   Carmina Burana had black hair, curious eyes, and a frightened voice.   In the morning I walked along the golden beach. In the afternoon he preferred to read in the shade of the trees. When he read he dreamed. When he dreamed he sang.     One day she woke up singing and the forest became silent, the sea was calm, her friends smiled and hugged her with a round of stars. From that day on, Carmina Burana had the words to say: Hello!  I love you so much.  I'm happy. Words were pouring out. A sea of ​​rough waves ...   Carmina Burana, the girl with black hair, curious eyes and frightened voice, goes into the forest and sings. Friends follow her. Now everyone hears his words. The wind spreads them like a veil of mist, like gauze mist. She undoes her black braid and sings.