Another hundred years have passed I have a crazed head what to do, my face has roughened, like the trunk of trees it lost its colors, like a portrait in the attic. Sometimes I see a paradise orchard, I taste the tang of apples on my lips and the old gardener by the gate says to me: You may enter, I will be glad. May I come in? May I? I actually in this house... It feels familiar to me here. So much time has come the grace of my steps has faded the pride of youthful years now I grow old here, in the attic it's ridiculous, who will believe me.
