From Calleja, from Samaniego, from Perrault or the Grinn Brothers, it doesn't matter much, but there was an old fable out there, disguised as a story, that spoke of a certain little bird that had broken a wing and sought refuge among the trees, although it was seen rejected by many of them, until he found a charitable fir tree, which welcomed him and protected him with its wings during the time of convalescence, which, by chance, was a harsh and cold winter.

I really do not know if, today, this beautiful fable will continue to be told by grandparents to their grandchildren, to explain, in a brilliantly poetic way, why some trees lose their leaves in autumn and others do not.

It would be beautiful to recall again, the singular power of seduction and conviction that fables and stories have, to the point of making them immortal - conveniently adapted, of course, because deep down, we all know what is really hidden behind many of them- and also teachers, as in this case, of a solidarity, which once adults, little or nothing we put into practice.

Today I want to think that these beautiful trees, which seem to light up with a splendid inner fire before finally losing their leaves, look languid in the pools of their own tears, lamenting that occasion when they could have mercifully helped the wounded bird, instead to bet on their own vanity.

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