With singular concord, without fastenings to the discipline of the rhyme, it shells harmonies on the paper with each sign of his magical poetry. Of colloquial expression it draws up an episode of diurnal simplicity and describes in him the scene of his small given daughter flavorful disquisitions in a secret language and very unknown. coarse Traza the girl scribbles, of writing I imitate, it presents/displays them to me and it says with mohn of intelligent gesture: " What says here, papa? " Then the mind of the philosopher, sensible, coherent and gracious, faces the results of the innocent garabateo, contemplates arabesque and rustic virgulillas written by the small one. Nothing finds in that written expression, the curves and declivities without intellectual pretensions and responds with certainty. Other people’s to the pretensions of the spirit who shines in the eyes of the girl, off guard and without caution it responds: Miro lines that seem verses. " Here? " " If, here; it I have written; what says? because I do not know to read it " " Here he does not say anything! " , I answered the moment to him. Before the expression desolated of the small one, Unamuno takes a break in its reflection and shells the mysteries of the language and their chimerical effluvia, through the multiple forms that there are found the humans to be understood and to harass themselves, to declare cult to the beauty and to deafen with the frenzy of the noise and the incoherence. From the fervor of a stammering to the heading on the paper of that multiform, unsubstantial and trivial pothook, the poet invokes to the genie of the imagination to include/understand the incomprehensible thing, to grasp the inasible. Something goes ahead then in its thought, a movement of suspicion, something unknown to its wisdom. It imagines the future then, the world to come, the amazing abysses of time separate that it of the moment at which these pothooks have substance and meaning.