Insect: Long and barefoot. It burrows into holes and twists. It loves holes, submerged in long darkness. Labyrinths and spirals. It sinks within them and swims. It leaps high, to the ceiling, and plummets down, pulled by the law of gravity. It pays no attention to the previous footprints leading to the dungeons. It does not fear surrender. That is why it shows a clear preference for wells. So there: either of height or depth. It tests the curse. And it does not spit in its bosom secretly. It simply endures it, launching it to its limits.

A sweeping wind carries it away. A sandstorm surrounds it. Sand enters its eyes, nose, and mouth. A sand dune is built where millions of snails find refuge. The snails respect it because it provided shelter during unbearable weather conditions for them. Their home was in ruins. Unprotected, there is no longer refuge for them in the gardens of princesses. Their bodies offer a bridge as a sign of gratitude for supplies from the other oasis. Water and tree. The insect appreciates this. And in return, it offers them flowers. Fragrant flowers that can make your soul wander. It withers alone.

Other insects do not inhabit around it. The desolate islands have swallowed them. Ultimately, it enjoys its solitude. It can do anything. It can be the jester, mock the fools, and roar with laughter while playing chess with a knight always tucked under its wing. Gentlemen, it is not ashamed of its invulnerable memory. It remembers its ancestors occasionally. Painful sorrow burns it. This is imperishable like a sunflower - they are perishable like from a cloud.

An insect indeed - but not a bug. It is not a poisonous centipede, but a humble silkworm. The snail has lent it a shell in any case. It is not threatened by a predatory eagle: it wants this silk - to weave silken dresses for chosen brides. Pure loves. To lie on solitary beaches, on affectionate small hills. The insect is ashamed of its tusk. History will take it from him. It grieves for its fate; how the night will unfold.

There is no wall to buzz against. Only a leap into the void. It dares it. It has no other choice. Smoke rising appears beyond the horizon. Thousands of insects fall dead. Only the small, barefoot little insect continues undeterred on its path to the beyond…, blessed little insect… come and share the Holy Communion… and then wrap yourself in your honey-toned mantle and follow the path of your missions. Behold, all creation will be re-cultivated thanks to your self-sacrifices.

You and Mother, emerge before me… I will build a small hut at the edge of the shore. A place of relaxation after so many upheavals; in the circle of life… the place a supporter and time also. Ripping the papers of debt… and let the art of pretending cease henceforth. Everything here is paid for. Insect, little insect, take off!...