On the last page of the book, the rafters of the roof creaked. The main beam of the house trembled and twisted like a snake, its belly full of honey. The corners were collapsing one by one. The reader raised his hands, and when he was sure his head was still on his shoulders, he grabbed the book by the edge as if it were a rotten fish and rushed toward his home.

He knocked on the door, three times. The door wouldn’t open. To the right of his left eye, a ladder was propped up against the windowsill. He realized that this house was different from the others, and without wasting time, he climbed up with a question on his lips:

– Are you the author of this book?

– Yes, I am that book.

– This book brought down my house, sir!

– I see two strong shoulders holding up a roof. Not even sharp winds and the rains of old times could bring it down. Do you know why? Because now you have the blood of my book in your veins. You know, dear reader, that for the book you hold in your hands, there are cut trees? And I’ve done this with my own hands, to give you oxygen.

– I will never read you again!

– Which means, you won’t plant the new tree?

– Your poetry strikes like lightning in my heart and has changed all my plans. Do you know what job I had until the day I opened this book? I used to build houses for fifty thousand euros and sell them for a hundred thousand. I gave money to people in need, and in five years, I took back almost double. I collected money from everywhere, in many ways. I had many friends, even politicians. In short, I was a bank; now I’m a bookseller.

– May I touch you?

– Yes, but please, stay away from the chest.

The poet touched his forehead, and when he saw that his fingers left no marks, he was overjoyed and said:

– Your body is made of paper, so you must plant a tree!

– But your book is also killing me little by little, the man full of power.

– Until yesterday, you were a king. That book you hold in your hands took away your crown.

– And added tears. I wasn’t this sensitive, dear poet. Like a gift at the end of the year eagerly awaited by a poor child, this book. But I was a man then when I first flipped through it. And now look at me under my nose, do I have a mustache? That night, a child with scissors in hand cut it off.

The poet finally laughed too, from the heart. He was very happy, ready to read "Old Albanian Tales," without drinking a glass of water. Yes, yes, to read aloud for the first time, just for the pleasure of the reader.

– Never in my life have I seen a poet so happy, – said the reader to the poet.

In the reader’s mind, perhaps a poet is like a frozen stone, not allowed to laugh.

– You became the spark of my happiness. You are now my book, or the man as he should be. Oh, how happy I am today: I feel like a “God.” A paper God, born from a tree.

My dear nature, I trust humans a lot, and here he comes, welcome with open arms.

– I don’t trust you! – said the reader to the poet. – You’re like the first glass of whiskey. I down it in one go, and the lit candle intoxicates me. I know they’re just words that light up my darkness inside, but outside, sir, I need a strong heart. Away from this table, a spider’s web…

– And in the middle, this book, dear reader. Trust me, it’s the key!

– No, I don’t trust you!

– Then kill me with your own hand. Take the gun and shoot me in the heart, – and he handed him a pen. – Life is beautiful; I’ve enjoyed it alongside simple people: it’s essential to discover life. What doesn’t fit nature kills!

– I can’t even hear the bird’s chirp when I’m as hungry as a wolf and as thirsty as a piece of desert. Your verse doesn’t feed me, nor can your tear quench my thirst.

Don’t speak anymore; you’ve created this emptiness in me, and I can’t understand which shores are asking me to become a bridge?

I hate you, good man! I will kill you! A dead poet is worth more.

– Hit me hard with these workbooks on the head, or pierce my tongue and tie a heavy stone. But please, take me to my beloved river and drown me.

– You’ll die soon, so I won’t enjoy it.

– Burn what I’ve written, or erase from memory the moments of creation, and I’ll be dead. Well, tell me, are you satisfied?

From the drawers, Laver’s clarinet could be heard, a mournful song, and a noise like knocking on closed doors.

The reader picked the thickest books from the shelves and struck him in the part of the head where memory lives. He gathered all the workbooks in a pile in the middle of the house and set them on fire. Without wasting time, he turned his eyes to the poet. He was dead. He was slightly startled but was alone in that room. He extinguished the fire, gathered the workbooks that had escaped the flames, and put them in the inner pocket of his jacket.

He left calmly, without looking back.