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There was a full moon and high tide, a sea of glittering little waves strutting towards the Gulf, only to be swallowed by bigger waves. A shaky silver reflection of the moon brightened the dark river, broken every now and then by a man’s dark shadow in the middle of a little canoe sliding to an unknown destination, like a sea bird, singing a popular song in the sweet local dialect, “I would ask if I could reach the heavens, why you bless some with all the luxuries and a loaf of bread tainted with blood for others?” And then from as far away as one could see, deep in the dark, beyond all the old tall palm trees touching the clouds, kissing the moon, a muffled voice chanted, hard to hear, fading from-time-to-time, interrupted by the oars gently cutting through the river’s warm water and a cool breeze going from cheek to cheek chanted: “Why do you come to my dream every night if you don’t love me?” The river was silent, the night empty, the voices heavenly.