The hand that it writes, that it marks, that makes to appear and fortifies the environment of dreams. The hands of the author, that the personages create and direct; the personages whom they contemplate for its proper hands as that to search for a way, an exit, one soluo.SEGUNDA? Hands are not true nor real They are mysteries that inhabit in our life to the times, when I look my hands, I have fear of God It does not have wind that it moves the flames of the candles, and you look at, they are moved For where if incline they? How penalty if somebody could answer! … THIRD? I have horror of having little you here already said I go what you to say. My words gifts, badly say I them, will belong soon to the past, will be outside of me, I do not know where, rigid and fatal I speak, and I think about this in my throat, and my words seem me people I have a bigger fear of what. I feel in my hand, do not know as, the key of one carries stranger. all I am an amulet or a sacrrio that was with proper conscience of itself. He is for he terrifies that me to go, as for a dark forest, through the mystery of speaking E, after all, who knows if I am thus and if he is this without a doubt that I feel? … FIRST? You always count, my sister, you always count Not you stop to count, nor you repair where days border The day never ray for who hillside the head in the seio of the dreamed hours You do not twist the hands. This makes a noise as of a furtive serpent You speak to us much more of your dream. It is so true that he has not felt none.