A numeral at the valley of inequity

There is a tree.
A tree with signs carved in its log.


This tree was fed by the mizzle of the west winds, and it cries
its leaves distil drops, which falling on the ground, turn into spades... nymph-eyed spades.

The spades penetrate the tree to the core. Thousands upon thousands of spades, and it bleeds.

[The tree] points its light to a statue of salt, a white lady all radiance and centuries, her salt eyes are looking at the bleeding tree. Both are separated by a luminous wall of ice, which the cosmos built one night of the life, can you believe?



... As the fingers of the lady of salt get bent and stretched, almost reaching the E5150 of the stars, the tree inearths its roots deeper into Gaia, that humid germinal matrix
deeper down in despair he buries his roots, and throws its bleeding branches toward the sideral mirror in impotence.
No one sees.
Everybody sees.



Once upon a time a valley, enchanted by the horror and the consternation.
A valley surrounded by interminable camps of ice; the valley of the tree and the lady of salt.



The tree wasn't a tree, the statue wasn't a statue, just the Sun of his growing.

And there is a meaning and a cipher in the narration, and the clever brain perhaps would guess it, for that is a human cipher.

Yes there's a number in that place, a number which anybody knows, a number
and every being in the Universes knows it.
Even the ice of the constellations know it, albeit no one dares to enter that valley of nebulized spasms and dried honey

no one, but a bird.


A little bird still dares to sing over the spades. The warm herald of love, he never dies.



And you wonder.