It has taken us some time to realise: there is something false in believing that we could have been more, or something else -almost anything else that, in its uncertain nature, might rise above clay and flesh, form, work and care-.

You nod because the future reached you too, less flourishing than expected, and you have counted up what you have spent on lotteries. We all gamble our lives in the dark. We entrust every step to a hope with no guaranteed return, to an intuition without collateral, to the advice of those who walk by different rules.

We laboured to attain what had been promised while the fiercest colours ruled over our path: storks circling in the sky, beauty without adornment, the love of brothers and sisters. We wanted to carry a purpose in our arms all the way to utopia.

Something opened beneath our feet. Our inability to overlook each other's faults turned us into strangers. We fled in shame, and words were entered into a ration book. We allowed walls of labels and bureaucracy to rise around us. Being ourselves went out of fashion.

But now, tired of appearances and reproaches, gathered around a table much like the one we have always known, as we shelter the fallen child and invoke the reconciling word, strength without care is not enough. Sharing ourselves is the only gift that truly matters, and raising a glass to life is reverence and tribute.