The end of the repetitive words opens the movie. Pronunciation is perfect, better than we can do ourselves. The following alternates several elements that lead to the narrative path: Words of the Galician poet Lois Pereiro, epistular memories, file images, memory landscapes. And those images that count the past are seen from here and from the present, in the rest of the exterior landscapes of the current villa of Biurgun.

Above all, the film takes place in the landscapes. Xulia is now looking for ways to move forward where 40 years ago there could be a detoxification center. There's something that brings us to the inner landscapes when we talk about landscape. In turn, descriptions of the present are a representation of the past, which brings to history the depth and complexity it needs. In these emotional maps there is a delicate assembly work, in which one possible path leads to another and expands the possibilities. The future has never been secure. In this chaos, the last scene acquires greater strength: The flute is burned looking down. It's a pause. He has given us all the information we needed, and we have it in front, as saying “now, manage what I have told you.” At last his eyes come, direct and unequivocal. That uncertainty is not going to be clarified, but we are willing to maintain life.

The border between the past and the present is what has most drawn my attention in this work. Or limit. How to get back to what had happened to us? A Lanzmannese trend moved to concentration camps that survived back to those murder points, back in the years. The nine-hour Shoah work gathers the memory of the facts and in it Lanzmann's goal was to provoke the catharsis. I'm not sure we have to look for that catharsis inside or outside the movie, but I'm convinced that the present gives another meaning to the past and vice versa. After all, like the one crossing the river of Heraclitus. The forests of Biurgune become an opportunity, a way to do their rituals. It's a book, a walk, a letter, a movie.