It is sunset, time for Maghreb prayer. It is not completely dark yet. I remembered the little palm tree beside my father’s grave, I glimpsed it from afar, and it looked like a grey ghost stretching its arms. I walked turbulently, frightened, groping my way cautiously, trying to see if there was a grave under me so I wouldn't step on it, I remembered my mother running behind me when I was young, trying to surpass the grave ,but there are no lights now so I speed up a little bit trying to reach the palm tree before it disappears into the dark. I move carefully… There is soil that rises a foot off the ground... I go back a little... I change my path, maybe it's a grave… I keep walking… There is another small mountain of soil, but my foot already stepped on it. I raise my head up, I look at the palm tree which is now closer, and I still have around 20 feet to go. Now, it is no longer a ghost rising in the dark; but a portrait of an artist with a melancholic temperament.