Towards these strange dreams, toward iron waters, brown flares.  Towards the cigar of that eternal man who wore toil every morning. Towards words soaked in praise and prayer.  O thin distances, towards the chest of torn dates and bragging. O freedom, full festivities, towards dewy leaves and rain. Towards all the capitals that sit in the garden of the peasantry have traveled after the era of ice revolutions.  Do you know how wonderful it is to go towards the road and make a body that spreads in the city center between the crowded streets?