Two clubs and a canvas. It could be a child's summer hut, a refuge from burning nights. But no, it's a boat and it's in the center of the city. It has only walls around it, but if we pay attention to it, there are no walls: we are in the sea. The wind blows strongly, with the extended fabrics. The underside has stretched the strings and a voice has led us singing; each to his port.

It is at night in Pamplona, and as every night, a man exiled a long time ago has approached the shore to counter and unbalance the dreams of childhood and maturity. From the ship's mast he has seen his little self approach: “Aunt, I want to go there. Towards the horizon? But as he approaches, he moves away.”

From this utopia, all the crew members have gradually appeared: funambulist, dancer, double bass player, singer, acrobat, equilibrist. Little by little, our boat has been undressed by the public. An infinite rope makes him move to the rhythm of the fado, as the waves pass, just as they themselves launch on the pulley of the two wheels. Equilibrists are challenging balance, walking on the rope, singing the fragility of the world in a game that is spinning in acrobatics of singing. Spinning through the open sea, they've turned their heads into our imagination and invited them to jump into nowhere.

Silence. The underside wants to dance with each string, in the infinite loop. The tangos come to the port. With the help of the singer’s vibrant melodies, the equilibrist has risen to the rope, to offer a tango to himself. Alone, without handles, but as if he were in the living room of his house, he has danced three meters from the ground. Soon he was joined by the second and then the third, together and under the sole protection of his eyes, to make the last folds on the rope moved by the wheels. Then the walls have been lifted and, by making a nod to the possibilities of the night, the steps of the dancers have multiplied in the stone walls of the Citadel.

In the lights and shadows, the conversation of the man approaching the coast continues as a wave, balancing at the rhythm of music the reflections that have been happening throughout the journey. A wave to the imagination. “Draw the oceans to open the horizons.” A wave to reality. “I’m 30 years old and I’m alone on this boat.” A wave to memory. “The boat is my face.” Last wave. “After so much sailing, I only have wrinkles inside me.” The underside has warned us: hundreds of poems have come to light in the seas of Pamplona. The wind has calmed down. The boat has been docked. Turn off the lights.

Poetic mechanics is what Cirque Rouages has given us: a life on a rope, which has always been like the wheels, and which makes us dream from the bottom of the sheet to the living.