I am he who saw what is unseen. It is a song that means nothing to it but its rhythm, a wind that blows to blow for itself. It is the song of a stone that watches the return of prisoners to what is not in them; a song of a moon that sees the secrets of all people when they hide their madness in its light and believe the song and fragility that examines a person in his traces, in an old piece of pottery; in a hunting tool, in a tablet that is interpreted; a song that glorifies miserable futility and the power of things in what is not perceived. A song that establishes, to know itself, the law of its bliss and travels to another reading that sees it as the opposite of what it was indicating and not indicating. It is a song, it is a song