And the childhood imagination that feeds all of humanity pictured to him that this mighty, wonderful man with his magical colors was touching the ground close to the circle of the horizon. So he rolled up his robe and ran toward the sun to catch the tip of the bow there. The sun was behind him and the wet ground was almost slipping on him. But the scents of the seductive flowers that wafted from the acacia trees along the road and the drain soothed his heart and soothed his soul. He did not tire of running. After a while, he was surprised that the arc was disappearing. It disappeared and the sky regained its blue color, which was similar in color to his mother's robes. All that remained were the clouds running away, so he stopped crying again. His crying increased when he saw the graves near him, and the rain had washed their roofs, washing away the bricks, plaster, or moss. His mother's grave was without moss. Its back was bright white like a dove's wing with small spots on it.