When I finally made it to the tree, I noticed a cross wrapped in leather, two planks really, and an epitaph from 2004, the tree was a tomb as well. The crows left in a croak. I wanted to leave a cigarette on the ground but only found some gizeh paper, so I rolled one out of thin air, and muttered Eluard’s very own :

“Le vent, lentement, roule, une cigarette d’air.”

Having paid my respects, I climbed as high as I could to see if I could spot my friends, lost in the toundra, and I saw two figures moving through the utopian garden.

Berlin beckons, it was time to go back.