DIA INTERNACIONAL DEL LLIBRE INFANTIL
Día Internacional del Libro Infantil
Haur Liburuaren Nazioarteko Eguna
Día Internacional do Libro Infantil
International Children's Book Day
Missatge d'Elena Perikleous (Grècia) [Il·lustració del cartell de Sandra Eleftheriou] 2 d'abril 2026
Once upon a time, a child was born, longing to live better than the heroes of fairy tales –who only lived happily ever after.
The child grew and changed, read, and became Don Quixote, battling windmills; Alice, bringing wonder to life;
Robin Hood, saving the forests;
a wolf, gathering moon-singing packs.
Years passed, but the world remained untouched by the change once dreamed of.
Yet–the child managed to put together a brand new world within a garden courtyard, filled with everything dear to the heart.
More years passed.
And as books whispered wisdom into the soul, the child knew what had to be done.
When autumn came, the earth was tilled and seeds were planted.
Winter arrived.
The child waited patiently for the white sheath to melt, nurtured by the company of budding books. Then it was spring. Tender leaves shot out from the stems.
Trunks thickened, branches stretched, buds sprouted.
The child’s soul blossomed, filled with colours and scents.
And summer?
It was the time of boats, sailboats, hot-air balloons, bicycles... the time of travelling far and wide! Now the child knew–without a doubt:
This was the way to change the world: by becoming a planter.
A planter of magical stories, sowing words, cultivating images, harvesting wonder, watering imagination. And so stories began to grow and spread.
Then?
The child pruned with love, gifting bouquets to passersby.
Bouquets of peace, hope, strength, and faith in the impossible.
Bouquets of small miracles, for each and everyone.
Every spring, on the second of April, the stories the child had sown set the world ablaze with bloom. Oh, and through the gardening workshops, reaping wisdom was passed on to young and old alike.
And the child’s garden became the Garden of Love, the courtyard, the Courtyard of Wonders, as the magician always held his ground— unspooling red threads of storytelling into the breeze.
