"Traveller who travels with no other baggage than imagination". I dreamt of big skies, clouds and huge voids and many birds of all kinds flying at high altitude... I have felt the call of that migration... but at the same time the image was vertical, so it did not suggest a migration in time, nor space... but between worlds... a migration through the states of the soul.

The hoopoe is a bird that often appears as a symbol related to the initiatory journey in both Arabic and Persian poetry. The most emblematic case appears in The Language of the Birds by Farid ud-din Attar (12th-13th century Persia).

The hoopoe as a guide on a journey of inner search through drifting in different landscapes and exterior scenes refers us to the song of our heart ... which we often forget. Its forgetfulness leads us to different landscapes of the soul characterised by a sense of loss and disorientation... wastelands of the soul and of the cities where we search for what we do not know... sometimes we find ourselves in disturbing labyrinths, and there lost with the only hypnotic reference of light we ask for a path to follow... alive... an unwritten path, and at the same time a path and no other, a unique path for every human being...

"In search of my loves I will go in fear of those mountains and shores, I will neither catch the flowers nor fear the wild beasts, I will cross forts and frontiers".

Desires will no longer guide our steps, nor will fears impede them... and so we will cross the frontiers of being to discover that they have never existed.

We see how a master teaches his disciple to revolve around himself, as do the planets, the macrocosm and microcosm and the blood in our own body.... We try it ourselves and we fall to the ground as we have no axis of our own to turn on... this immobile point in the centre of the wheel, of the hurricane... We find other communities where the material and the spiritual meet naturally, because in fact they have never really been separated... the wound closes and heals... the world we inhabit is no longer made up of oppositions and otherness...

We become aware that everything disappears, that nothing has permanence, except perhaps the mystery... which now appears as Reality, that which we cannot calculate, control, that which escapes us... life.... That which only the creative imagination can intuit until it recognises itself...