Before my tender sage I understood
that to remember is to bring back the heart.

The October rains
and the Monday siesta
tore away the purity
of the strength of fate.

It is the voice of the soul
that cries out when García Márquez
comes to know himself again
before the innocent ears
of an uneasy emotion.

Awakening. To go backwards.
I am a blurred line
of past and projection.
Magical realism is a capsule
that goes back to the times
of stained suits,
of frustration, despair and change.
is the main breath of today.

I am not a chronicle, but a retrospection.
the subtle invades the delicacy
of Lope's love
and the oxymorons of Quevedo.

Adolescence gains legends.
Imagination pricked
by a romantic condemnation
that destroyed pragmatic rationalism.

The beginning cries for the verses of Machado
and the bloodied hand of destroying
and writing.
The beginning is the union to this torment.

"He took the girl by the hand and went out into the street."
I return to the present with this sentence
and the silence of the mind finally cries.
At last it accompanies a written truth.

This torture has been the way
that the sage ended up making me understand.
The beginning hooked me
and the continuation was the sweet punishment
that has brought me here.

I don't know yet if they are my butterfly lovers,
but I was born for them
and I am because we are.

The serendipity of stories
is the little game of memory.