I am the controller of the sky. The lovers come to me. I am perched on the mountain of dreams, my eyes riveted on the horizon. They ask me to spread the clouds to better see the face of their lover. It happens that the silhouette of one of them is pressed, her hands puffed up, her complexion reddened. They are the spurned lovers, and I prefer them to all the flowers of my mountain. I hold out my right hand to them and they rise up on the purple promontory, beside me. Their tears fall on the arable land. They are the weeping lovers of the mountain. As a rule, I like them because they don’t ask me anything. They just stare at the wind. Sometimes, one of them gets up, walks a few steps behind me. It is because she has seen the smile of some former lover in the darkness.

I am the controller of the sky. Perched on my mountain, at nightfall, I hear the owls give me the count of the lonely women who have climbed the path from the moon’s edge to me. The sun is not my friend. It makes my eyes round as it disappears behind the glades of dreams. Wind moistened with tears infiltrates behind my big ears. A first woman, purple umbrella in the right hand, advances to me. I hold out my hand to her. She sings a song, certainly the hymn of her country, that her husband must have liked to listen to. She sings divinely well. I listen to her for a moment, then I take her hand. We walk side by side on the paths of the mountains blooming with blue azaleas and frosted begonias. The evening wraps us in its caressing hands.

I am the controller of the sky. I decide the degree of darkness of the mountain. A second woman came to me; in her hand lay a bouquet of wilted roses. I made it snow for a long time, then I looked at her. She also looked at me, and we smiled at each other, then she put the bouquet of wilted roses on the young snow. Her face was rough, wrinkled, and tanned by the sun. I lowered the darkness of the sky again and dragged her by the waist up the steep mountain paths. We passed through a bay of orange trees and I called for rain.

I am the controller of the sky. The sun doesn’t appreciate me, he who knows well my ride. I welcome the saddest female souls of the country. They often bring me gifts that I put on the side of the road, then I take them with me to climb the mountain. All I have to do is snap my fingers to make a beautiful cloud, or a storm, appear and I see them smile. Once our walk is over, when we have reached the end of the storms, the end of the natural elements, the precipice prolongs our gaze. They turn to me to thank me and I have nothing to do but to call the wind with my wishes, which carries them in its dark wake, deep into the precipice of disappointed dreams.