The traveler is miles away from reaching the White City of Deliria, as it is called, but the dull thumping of its wooden drums is already ringing gently in his ears, as he once again lays down to rest at one of those innumerable inns with haystacks and maidens. He props his head with his arms and listens to it intently, dazed; sometimes confusing his own heartbeat with the distance reverberation. Later, in his dreams, he is holding a glass of wine and ecstatically admiring the wedding of the youngest princess of the Jungle City, and he wonders why it is called the White City of Deliria: the significance of the latter he has already known, the faint medley of faraway drums had made it clear to him long before his foot set upon the damp grounds of the city; but the White has eluded him, for this is a city of creepers and climbers and bamboo, and oases which sparkle at night, but never ever are white. And he wakes up from the ecstasy in sweat; it had been a summer night and now it is morning. He bids farewell to the innkeeper, and leaves for the city of Deliria, which he will never reach but in his dreams, each time revisiting a different event, a different place in the jungle, a different festivity; with the drums rolling; and he’ll know Deliria, but not the White, as he’d stop by to rest the night at one of those innumerable inns with haystacks and maidens.