Come closer, beauty exists in the distant valley. Where three masks breathe, a red clown, a woman made of cardboard. All with a mark on the temple. Every hope would be unreasonable, only returning to the white forest matters.

The story changes along with gunfire and birds flying away in fright. All the demons gathered around. People are at a loss. Windows are humid again. I fall into bed – sinking along with the small things of the new day that keeps coming. Two dead fish on the plate, the whole affair is a fraud.

The parquet dangerously slips. The house became a guesthouse, as for the sad bull, it knows everything as tree roots age on its skin. There is no doubt, the crime is as clever as a bird in flight. The confession was never made. The crow flies low.

What exactly gives meaning to the country. The thirst turns into madness, that's how resistance begins. The people want to live. Time passes, no more blood is spared. The truth without jokes is that we are becoming ruins, unworthy of those who bleed.