I'm back in the letter a national aviary sent   
                                                       and you're not here.
     In the letter is a real house where
                     love cannot be pictured, it must be the logic
why inside a badly painted man is painting a landscape.
                                   In the landscape, in that very captivity
   of artistic hell I don't have any means to see
     a completion, which is a brutal reason for me to stand
            and wait. I'm here and nothing is ending.
                    Nobody speaks.     Nobody dies.