You are a figment of the wind in my thoughts, where there is no empty space for your dreams, which sit like anxious birds on many different fresh branches with many vanished faces, not knowing when those who have disappeared before will vanish again and will not appear at some point, and whose flying is the ignorance of memory of the vanished, where you and I, as if it were a warm thread, spin together and smile, so that we can hear each other's questions "Where are we" and "Who are we" in which your wing? in which my thought?.