You said you knew me! Just look boldly at my humble abode: With the gradual orderliness and cleanliness arranged, you can't find any clues that I can sometimes speak to myself my vocal cords, a secret, inner room, with a strange mutter! My manuscripts and my mother can know my fleeting fads, my laughable rhymes - but only my mother knows me! A disciplined army of my folded feathers standing guarding may know the furry forest, the jungle bushes of my chunky hands, but really even they couldn't solve the eternal mystery about me: Why am I thirsting for loneliness, loneliness condemned to fertility?

Even so, I still like the shady sides of incognito, and despite my great hall, I avoid being noticed! I am still researching, discovering in myself the essence and content that I thought was led away, but my inner being is the constant doubt and despair itself!

I have countless secrets! I'm a survivor! The ancient hiding place, whose survival has become survival at all costs! Therefore, how can anyone imagine that he could have seen me without a thorough mapping of the inner soul-hall? "So next time I can only afford someone who has no back, sneaky intent,"

and it can't be - but whose mind is more understanding and whose heart is nobler when it beats, and who accepts my stupidly mature blunders, my little boy's dreads, half-truths! “Even in my heart, his hopeless troubadour, romantic son-in-law is hiding.