The moon can only be a small sensual curved blade of moonstone.
A wide horizon cuts her kingdom from a distant plain, on a brown muddy surface we can barely see some blue, ochre or light blue cubes, sharp edges make them shine in the moonlight.
The Wind is wuthering, not that here we can find any high peak, he is waving wheat and high mountain grass in the plateau, green outposts in the pale brown.
In the wasteland we can glimpse five figures, they look like friends, laughing and talking together. They have five dogs, the smallest, a black one, kept on a leash by a black dressed young woman, she is the daughter.
Nisida, the tall woman in the front in jeans shorts, we see her shoulders covered by a yellow Alexander Wang knitwear, hands on her hips, on the right one a black leash, she is inspecting the scene in front of herself: the daughter, two white haired men, a black long haired dog with a white spot between nose and eyes, and a middle sized rusty haired dog.
Behind her, on the left, Victoria is letting down her blonde, straight, salty hair, a border collie is watching her.
I hear them whispering on that quiet ground, a gloomy desert, an arid plain of dry mud punctuated by lone trees and yellow flowered shrubs; they keep moving slowly, gently as in a slow motion ballet, as if they had thorns on their arms and scales on their necks.