It is not a mere words that I wish, that I hope when it reaches you, it is my soul – unbounded by wind, sea, and sky.
It is not just alphabetic conceptions that delivered to your small hands, it is my heart – unlocked by the earth and all the trees those never bow under the heaven.
It is not a paltry of black above the white fields that you see with your very own eyes, it is my dream – travelled far on uncharted and borderless desert, accompanied by the song the sun and the moon.
It is not a measly conviction when you hold it, it is my love – the life of a spirit that hold your hands, the very hands that bring it into this world.
Yet it is a letter, a simple wordless one, from meto you.
Bhyllabus l'énigme 
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