Cuts and cuts, poplars, routes, loaves. Face cuts, friendships, jealousy, frustrated love. When everything was direct, soft, unequivocal, where your face was in the presageable steppe, a storm and you meekly corrected your words and intoned soft melodies and sang them in the ear and in all goodbyes closely so as not to disturb or disturb the peace in that we lived The tranquility of the rivers that flow gently in the south, the breeze that caresses us freshly, the inconveniences of life that we knew how to face and clear. The continent of your eyes that knew how to inquire without disturbing. The aromas that surrounded you, sometimes expensive, without caring about the origin of those existential perfumes. Until everything disappeared in a river of thaw dragging branches, gravel, large pieces of ice, and that is the way of goodbyes, the luck of discounting in time the hours that would cause us more injuries. We are distant and close, we are right that we have not advanced in everything. We are convinced of so much frustration, triumph and failure are so close, the limit is so clear, the future is so clear, existence is so clear, only existence.