It rises, up and up,
Leaving alone the hand.

It is still moving up,
Leaving its habitat;
To follow a new thought.

But at a limit, it stops;
As if confused in choosing path;
And in its life intrudes the wind,
Pushing it from every direction,
Not for helping,
But to lead towards end.

It has smooth surface,
With good things as water,
And bad ones as fire,
Heating it slowly.

It leaves itself free,
And moves with the wind;
Which leads it against right,
And after that;
Against gravity.

It is rising and rising upward,
Unaware of obstacles in path,
And reaches a pin
that stroked to the last exhale.

Finally, the hand reaches the balloon again,
But this time, with unhappiness.