BRANCO is a path into the night walked by six white figures. A Warlock, E Tailor, I Mary, O Jokerman, U Angelus, and the Artist. These six characters should be read as a succession of signs on a single page — a space that, as it unfolds, reveals the cries of a dying fool.

It is a dark room, a white rectangle, with some points of light within it.
Come closer, all of you, and listen.|
This is, in fact, a door.
The door — dark, of course — is not a door, but a wall. It is neither a wall nor a door. It is an open mouth that ceases to be a mouth because it speaks in silence.
It is a stone. We know it is not a stone because it holds the memories of a body that once shone with light and now leaves a trail behind it.
Today I brought an incandescent poem.

Quatre colors aparien el món
On em dissolc i on la beutat consir;
Si de la mar faig el meu elixir,
Dels quatre tints assaig el joc pregon.
Bru del teu nu i del teu ésser abscon,
Blau de la mar i dels ulls on em mir,
Blanc de l’hostal i, puix que em plau el gir,
L’ardent vermell que el teu llavi difon.

J.V. Foix (Sol i de Dol, Sonet XV)