I stand in the killer's footsteps, a breath of wind reconnects spirited passions and dawns sprinkled with the smell of cumin. Thanks to the civilization of weak grudges and fearful evenings before the hearth the murderer takes the form of a ghost who chases after gladness and scolds young women for their bitter laughter. Women who hide tender locks and reproaches of alien civilizations sure that sweetness and submissiveness is the ransom to pay for their children. They descend mute, heated and weary, laden with jewelry and innocent footprints of which the cities of God are full
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