The crows fighting against the shadows are not aware of the dead to spy on those who remain. Here they are in the corners, haunted by the totality of existences dissolved in the womb of the world. Time even denies them the anchor of memories. Among the divinities, they do not look at the fragile young girls, those we want in danger so as not to accept their reign over our obsolete idols. The dangers seem to cluster with fatherly myths. But the women undermine the violence of wolves and to each of them the birds whisper "You who know more about nothing than the dead".
