But it could be considered more perfect with the grace of some excellence, in addition to the Byzantine prose that gave rise to my introductory notes to this book: "Who was the murderer of my brother". This is, more positively, the narrative masterpiece of Byzantine, as it gathers in its pages all the other intertwined and concentrated gifts: tragedy, character portrayal, local color, poetry with lyricism, heart-wrenching emotion, Eastern enthusiasm, beautiful faithful and yet much more advanced representation beyond photography of places, times, souls, faces. "Family tragedy, as I have called it before, woven and unraveled in inseparable coherence".

Kiamil, the murderer of a man, how much more sympathetic than his victim, innocent criminal, later gentle, cultivates a garden and roses in the garden, to replant those roses on the grave of the one he killed. A prophetic proclamation of the fate of the same author, who ended his life on the outskirts of the world, crazy in Dromokaiti. But even there, on top of his logical monument, he cultivated the roses of his beautiful art, with verses - they are his last - unexpectedly expressive in their pain and rhythm...