A lonely man is in his room. This man was a shepherd for most of his life, crossing the transhumance paths from mountain to valley and from valley to mountain, following and watching over his flocks from the beginning of autumn to the end of spring. He was also a soldier who fought for four years on the Karst front, moving back and forth between the rear and the trenches, following and protecting his reason.

However, in his room, there is nothing that references those lives: no heirlooms, tools, maps or tools; only words, those of the poets printed on the pages. These words are light, capable of flying beyond the horizons, but at the same time heavy, capable of affecting the mind like the wood it loves to carve.

These precious and inseparable books have accompanied him in his numerous transhumances, they have helped him to overcome the limits of ignorance and to expand the boundaries of his vision, leading him to look within himself and within all of humanity, so as to become a cantor of his experiences, because “Man must not be like a dog who rushes into an attack; by nature he has been endowed with a brain and must try to understand everything, think and reflect”. Flipping through her beloved classic authors in her room, her memories take shape as life slowly turns its last pages.