Our cities glare still. The fire burns still in the forests in Italy, in France and Spain. In Hungary, in Poland and Latvia the trees catch fire on each summer. And I never forget how junipers standing in the reflected light blew up bluntly and burnt into ashes in the descending night. An illumination gathers in you at a certain point in the night when a giant bird flies over the dark river, and you standing on the bridge see a writing on the surface that looks like a strange kind of promise.