He grabbed his children between his comfort – white shrouds and silence heavier than the sky, his heart hosted by two small bodies, two children in his hands covered with white shrouds – bodies without mobility, and faces that were involved in eternal silence. There is no procession that is rumored, nor a funeral while, nor the comfort of consolation that is cooking on a bumpy chest. Only a prostitute is in front of a bitter certainty, asking the sky to throw him an inappropriate patience, and give the invasion of believers a breath and a severity at a ruthless night.