This morning is dark, and when I outspread my hands through the window,
the dust slaps their faces. It is a dry dust, like the human soul, and that is a
strange thing beside the loud sound of waterfall which wakes the dead up. We
see all this dryness despite the birds' song. Isn't it strange? The hoopoe does not come to our garden any more.
He left toward another land, where the warmth. We are a desert, and our hearts
are made of sand, so how the hoopoe can live with us.
The most interesting thing, which distracts me in front of all this heap
of killing, is the unlucky magicians. How they can daze the visitors? They lost
the hoopoe bone. Don't worry; all of us are dazed by the new magicians. They amaze
us by making the death and steeling the breeze. They kill our smiles, and every
hoopoe brings the truth baskets from a remote lands.
