was not going to cemeteries. The justification not remember, maybe I covered the Common sense, however visceral culture and inherited by the blood it always ends persist. Is that the charge is outside the cemetery symbols yet won and reverential silence imposed easily.
Since my mother died, the callejuelitas between tombs, steep and uncomfortable, had begun to dispense with the dust of my feet. However, I came back. To say that I found more than marble and void is not bad, and if it were to declare that I addressed the absence of calm with no progress. I saw the structure and expected soft blue pottery, it was chosen over thousands of crying for my grandmother, perhaps to emulate the sky missed she claimed that protects their enslaved Salvador, my only magical and unforgettable grandfather.
The blue glass mirror me back to the faces of the line of my flesh, I saw and I saw the maker of the vault above Quiroga, my grandmother Carmine Hannson Ralli, now dying under a litany out of time, in a dying fire that fails to ring oxygen. I closed my eyes and saw my Father, and the blue of his eyes to his grandfather Valentin Quiroga Garcia, running from Salamanca in the early last century, and in turn to his father, Casimiro Quiroga Losada, on the Kalends of the century nineteenth drafted in heavy volumes and with a beautiful handwriting, memory Monforte de Lemos attorney, in a fantastically Galicia arrested in the Middle Ages. And in a horrific inaccuracies break, my son's face, radiant with life, smiling, carrying his legacy (my heritage), into infinity, and my mother, recently due to paradise, caressing, hugging, reminding the primary essence comfort, with just a glance.
The unexpected storm in the afternoon I started dreaming. The blow cold Awareness was more blunt than the cold itself.
I left the field on the latch. The toll surpassed
flowers, and I was satisfied.
undertook a sky turned scarlet. Before writing, and prisoner of literary ecstasy, began to recite the pines lengthened:
part of me is inexplicable lights, bows
the wind does not excuse my words,
that the universe is my reflection
nor the
reverse paradigm of what my hands have been lifted. Eager
sunrises,
me illustrate the freshness of each awakening.
I falter before the insanity,
irreverence and outrage, and yet persist
standing, struggling
unattainable.
I can not write, I no longer want it,
hell freezing my fingers on the keyboard drums
memory fatal.
When freedom is empty of the emblems disappear
compasses.
Today, the eyes of my son are the only
southern lights in Tuesday's horrific capitulation.
