You shake my hand in amazement, amid winter-dressed fields and tired white branches. When will this anxiety go away? Then the eternal words will come. How are hopes? When we remember those distances, we are filled with laughter and nostalgia. Yes, our memories are inspiring, full of tears. Maybe it will attract our friends and they will love to sail in this memory; in this sea of inspiration. Why not? We can be good writers, and of exceptional sizes. Yes, we can be good writers; we grow wheat and buy reeds to warm the autumn. Is not this our blood flowing, and our bodies sold in the streams? I am tired of these merchants and the people of cheap goods. They hold us fake eyes. Are they not tired of this slavery? Are they not ashamed? I hope you hear, there must be freedom, there must be a beginning, a scream that awakens the sleepers.

Our summer is not beautiful because our daughters do not have a new veil and our children do not have smiles. In summer the sea is without wind and the sky is clear, but the eyes of this world are blind to see my naked body. Summer here is very lightweight as everything; There is no dreams, no smile, no future and no souls, I mean; no life here in summer. Our morning is hot and empty and our evening is dry and painful. Our summer is not beautiful because its sun is dark and its stories are sad.