I was told that Paris is a beautiful city and has a colorful spirit, so from childhood I dreamed of slapping my brown face with its white clay but I am a wild leaf knows nothing about beauty or artists and all I know are dry fields. Here, in my broken box, nothing but a pale shadow with a faint spirit walking between woods with a hidden face; I mean a very hidden one. When dawn opens its eyes, I hear our birds sing in a faint voice, and when the evening closes its eyes, I see our moon without love, so how can I walk in the bright streets of Paris?