Every house has a door

which is closed to us.

The houses of our tomorrow

will be born from this clay that we knead today,

of this mud that we mix with straw

and that the shit of our horses has fermented.

From all this rot our houses will be born

and they won't have doors because there are no trees here

nor carpentry,

they will have no more veneer and a curtain behind

to drive away the heat

And there will be no walls because we have no secrets

Our children will be born not from love

but of natural and primitive enjoyment

on the bed next to the table.

Only whoever we want will enter our house.