You deserve to know this secret: the sparrows in flight can feel the earth as it trembles. Now that you know, I ask you to pass around a secret of your own. Or a solution to a riddle or a paradox, a formula, a proof. Or a recipe your great grandparents killed and died protecting for. And as you go, tell them to do the same, tell them the rules of the game. And after a while, we can expect the air to swell with the viral energies of truth. And the thunder will never modulate its voice again. And the serpent will stay faithful to its skin. And the elements will confess their sexuality. Behold the oceans to tear apart only to swallow those who go against the advice of the wind to howl as they pass. There will be dancing as the dormant volcanoes break their centuries of sleep, as the sky reveals a dreadful dragon draped around the red, half-bitten sun. Sooner the air becomes unbreathable for the fools and and the governments will surrender their seats to us, the confessional poets, the postmodern prophets, who started this game. Towards the end of the year, we shall be able to pick the best secret tellers and award them with ten lovers each, plus a lifetime supply of marshmallows, wine and scented candles.