My little one: I was paralyzed behind the wall, and through the wall itself (not through the window, or through the doorway) I saw the only road there was, flooded, riddled with potholes where a car jumped under the rain with you on the backseat, burning with fever. I looked for distraction in kneading bread, turning my back against you, facing the wall above the kneading table, but I kept seeing the car while it painfully moved in its day-long expedition to the doctor, on the road that went up and down across that wall. But we have no car, we have nothing, and the illusion (or rather, the lie) of the wall hurts maybe more than your truth at my back, than the conscience of our misery and of our misshapen lives. Two days have passed and you are still there, defenseless. At least the wall does not lie anymore: there is no road and no car, there is no way out. Exhausted by fever, unable to see the beautiful light I do see myself, you ask me why suddenly the night; and, looking at the sun, I sing to you: “Night came, night came, because the mountain gobbled the sun”.