These two creatures manage to dream, even in a precarious balance. Gently clinging to a bicycle, which is a winged horse and hot air balloon, kite and soap bubble. It's not cotton candy, because there's nothing sweet in fleeing from a war territory, there's only the terror of not making it, but this is a feeling that can be read on the face of a father transporting bags of life and residual hope, which is still a generative sentiment.

The father runs terrified and fast, like a road giant, like the fantastic riders who in times of peace joyfully decide to battle, without bullets and detonators, but with the sole force of their youthful exuberance that pushes them to arrive before your friend.

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