It is terrible not to find where to go ...
Some of the houses are destroyed, without a bed, in the dark and with spider webs, with stains on the walls and with sad ghosts, others stand as false as a set.
From the palace or the haunted house, the upholstery we see worn, outdated. There is no beauty in that place, there is no mystery, and we continue our isolated path, in the garden the fountain of fatigue drips.
There are inns that are no longer opened for us, with which we have lost contact, when, exempt from excuse, we search, hesitant as a foreigner, or even as beggars, distant, strange ...
It is terrible not knowing where to go at the end of the day dead at the time when it is sometimes drunk, or killed.
Finding that there is no path, no path, no door, where to knock, in the fatuous smile of triumph, or in the poor ending, the House of the Soul consumed!
