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"So Shoot, coward"

My mother, on October 9, bought a music box. The
hung at the head of the bed and did so, girandone the key, that small bees greet me colored gems, among swaying and chanting.
My mother, on October 9, quitted the curtain tassels and fresh, letting in a yellow light that illuminated artificial and my stubby legs.
He looked down, sticking his cheeks and nose to the windows spotless.
I turned the arts into the void, as gasping, maybe I was hungry but decided to wait perhaps a more favorable moment for despair and scream.
When the cloth is lowered on the windows, came a shadow still, peel appearance of a disastrous day.
So, instead of light, a hiss of radio flooded the entire room.
Worldwide.
The ceiling is a sky and the ground floor, sea floor mats and shoe wax rafts.
objects and ornaments as inhabitants of the globe, around: an alarm clock with fluorescent numbers, the picture frame with the peak of the eel noire memories of summer, the soft brush on the shelf of the dresser, on which stood petineusse
the pink of my groups, the container of talcum powder and pinched under the duvet cover, the chandelier drops.
Scent of lavender between the sheets and bedspreads small golden great.
And the hissing voice became.

"... The most credited Guevara recounts how he received several shots to the legs, or to avoid spoiling the face is to prevent the identification ... "My mother


, October 9, sat down with weary hands in his lap.
Hear my cry over every other sound and hoisted me, holding me as a bundle: trophy high above his head.
My mother, on October 9, I nursed and crying at the sound of a poem salvadorena, given to me as a lullaby, I fell asleep first.


Then the old woman said to me
"Look at this dry rose that one day

was enchanted by the magnificence of its season, the time it crumbles
also not very high walls
deprive the book of wisdom. These dried petals
philosophy
no more than can give your wise library;
put it on my lips the magic
harmony with which the cast embodies the dreams of my rock. "
" You're a fairy " I said. "I am a fairy," he said,
"and celebrate the joy of spring, giving life and flight
these leaves of rose."
It turned into a princess and fragrant
into thin air, the fingers of the fairy
flew the dried rose like a butterfly. Rubén Darío



Then she closed her eyes swollen. And
became silent prayer.
was 1967.