Martinico, Martinico, when are you going to help me? (Translation to English)
Si tu lengua es el español, puedes leer el cuento original aquí.
It was late, too late, so she needed to go back home: she hadn’t wanted to tell her friends sooner because they would laugh at her, and she was sick of them doing it. She wrapped herself even more tightly in that party coat, but it wasn’t very useful: the coat was very pretty but not very warm. Anyway, it wouldn’t defend her from any danger, whatever the distance you were seeing it from. It was at that moment that she realised she couldn’t understand why she was so cold at that time of year. She looked at the thermometer on a street clock and realized something was wrong because she felt cold even though it was 28 degrees Celsius outside.
Then she heard something behind her. She turned but didn’t see anyone. But when she looked again ahead, she saw someone who couldn’t have been more than 4 feet tall, dressed strangely: he wore a monk’s brown habit down to his feet, and the hood covered his head. Now, what surprised her most were his hands: they were large, almost enormous. Beign so little, he looked like a mischievous child but older. But each of his hands were the same length as one and a half times her arm. His (lack of normal) height was underlined by the street and buildings she was walking by at that moment.
She didn’t know what to do, until, after a while, in a low, almost lifeless voice, the figure spoke to her in a somewhat old-fashioned language:
«Where are you going at this hour, beautiful maiden?»
Buy me a coffee. ☕️