We remained alone. Shepherds, each herding his flock of silence through a dark space. His face goes white from chemotherapy. His face is the other same. After growing in him undetected for seventy-five years, he now presses the other same face from within, so his own cheek becomes more and more present in vanishing. He turns, but does not click on the light. As if, following the traces of an erased path, he’d gone too far. From there the word returns through the darkness. Barefoot and without a body, the voice walks behind the sheep. Soft as wool, it moves through the kitchen. The darkness is vast, and the path traveled is as small as an orange, another planet on the sideboard. That he’s happy as never before in his life, he says into the silence. That he truly feels love, a hoarse voice after a sheer silence. As if it had stepped off a cliff into the arms of the abyss, the voice says, that it loves, loves and is loved. Under the window, the wind sways the crown in the night, unravels its leaves, and all the crows from the sky.