Above the clouds of our city, there’s another city fastened with ropes. The smoke from our chimneys is its fruit trees, the dreams of our children the snowflakes on its Gothic spires, our merest words the granaries that feed mammals, extinct in our world, that continue their carefree lives there. Wheat and scarecrows grow even inside houses, stately swans swim in the city canals and it only takes some milk in a saucer for the hidden moon to show up in your garden. That’s where the raven collector lives, the Cascabel family, Lenin’s embalmer and John the Evangelist. It is where St. Pasternak lives with his forbidden poem, Hamlet, and St. Samson the hospitable with his bitten nails. There are many ladders, trapdoors and other secret ways of getting to the upper city. I climb by losing myself in your green cat’s eyes.