I believe, I am. I am what I am and have, and what I do not have and share, we share in a continuum without a time limit. It is not an ash mirage. Although you already know that you do not believe me with a closed heart. But even with you I am fascinated. For the love of the hands. Because when I am weak, you take them from me without taking away its nature, thinking about it afterwards. I ask for your name. You tell me: Two nights. Two mouths. They do not keep quiet, because keeping quiet sounds like an absence, as the poet would say, whoever believes it, because he does not write poetry, if not the nature of his own words.