What a black winter, when it needed spring. The streets were empty. Museums and churches, playgrounds and parks, all empty. In four months, nothingness became the master of deprivation.

In this town, built on eleven streams, the words zero and none were the key to all the dialogues. There was no other answer in people’s mouths. “What did you score in the polls?” Zero, they said. “Shall we go to the meadow on Sunday?” I don't feel like it at all.

Lost in the Aurbera. In this grave restlessness, the palm was healed. The hail blew up the cherry and the apple. Rotten onion, snakes. In that disaster, the streams quickly ran out. The vineyards, the mountains and the forests were burned. Decline the parliaments and the houses of the people... And, they blamed a crisis in question for all the evils.

“Who is to blame for this crisis?” someone asked.

The Twenty-Seven Governors met to find answers. The Church called the Synod to give instructions to Christians. The prophet invited the believers to go to Mecca. The workers were united in the demonstration by the unions.

“Whose fault is it?” the existential philosophers wrote in the newspapers. “The cat doesn’t have five legs, so let’s look for a fite solution,” the pragmatic politicians replied. “Whose cat are they talking about?” The Holy Father came out to the window of St. Peter in the middle of the conflict that took the proportion of stretching ad aeternum.

For the sake of kissing. After clever discussions, all the people’s most esteemed lords came to an agreement: bankers, rulers, bishops, oil exploiters, stock brokers and bomb makers.

“The officials are to blame.” It was written on a scroll. In other words, teachers, mailmen, gardeners and ambulance drivers were to blame for the crisis. They cut their salaries first. Take the vacation away, then. In the end, they were all condemned to work for the sake of the community.

The red hit the teacher, the hunger hit the mailman, the old man the gardener, the fever hit the ambulance driver. One by one, the village workers began to disappear. The dog died, but the rage that must have ended immediately had no end.

“Who’s to blame?” was heard again among the bottles of expensive whisky from the four corners of the meeting places, in the mouths of the gurus accustomed to eating with ripened red wine, in discussions of blue-eyed women taking their children to school in more expensive cars.

“It’s the plumbers, electricians, bakers, pharmaceutical assistants and zahato-josle... that are to blame,” said the bankers, businessmen and heads of government.

All these self-employed were also condemned: first to pay high taxes, then to work for kisses... They did the same thing with shopkeepers, steel workers, farmers, fishermen and miners... until they all disappeared.

The Twenty-Seven Governors met again. This time with the Holy Father. Also meet the priests, seers, sybil and/or pythonis of the oracles of Babylon and Heliopolis. The Archbishop of Armagh asked the President seriously: “Who should you put to work in factories and workshops now?”

This reversal, more seriously: “Slaves of all skin colors from Africa, Asia, America and Oceania are there. We've got a place to throw the net. Well, our pagocha won't hit the bottom right away! I mean, capitalism.”