It is one of those who have given many tumbos in their life. The eyelids have almost reddish, chambuqueado, large as if they were mussels passed through the pan. If they were seagulls, or blackberry, or whatever, they would undoubtedly fly. The body is one of those elongated, a body of wire, decimated by hunger, a body that no longer knows where to put it so much to shake it. A countryman with Bina, would say, of those pardos that arrived in the city and do not know where to start or end.
And there you have it, on the edge of the table, pulling the tablecloth, spilling the wine glasses, an angry red, of the fights, of those who crawl to you by the palate and give you scratch as if it were a cat, a beast. There you have it, made a wink, the grooved eyes, pins that click. Look around. The same faces of always. The same life of a lifetime. They with their anger faces, they, the same birds of always, pecking the seeds, clenching their fists, so that nobody snatches their whistle, so that no one takes that little song that is strangled to them throat inside.
Don’t forget me, don’t leave me lying on this slope. That’s why we dressed raspberry and posed in front of the spotlights. So that time is turned on and that oblivion goes out. Therefore, also, we multiply the nonsense. We bought bananas for a million and then we zampos, while another, an old man, widower, poor, stays every night to sleep in a basement for a handful of tickets that fit in a box of hills. And so the circus continues, while one pulls the tablecloth and cleanses the crumbs, while the seagulls become vultures and the mussels lose the saltpeter of the eyes, and stop chopping.
Because one day we stop crying. We clean the snacks with the sleeve. We let the thighs dilute, that the words dissolve. One day we let the blood stop dancing. We forget the Inuit, who rot with the thaw, that the polar bears are eaten or the orcs are zampe. We forget even our parents, trapped in the attics of their residences. Looking for the grilles a piece of sky that knows Mazapan, that they would like to chew. There they stay in the drawers, giving it to the spoon, sucking anise’s pacifier while the screen plagues and the afternoon goes to its ball.
Don’t forget me, they say while raising their hand, for another sip. Even when the blue has turned off, do not forget me. Even when the men stop turning like sunflowers, when the streets stay up, because on that piece of sidewalk you were stepping strong, legs, rear, because you had the upright neckline of bow. We will run out of jaw, with barely bones on top. We will be soaked, looking like owls the time we are going out of hand. And as much as they put the spoon in your mouth, there will be no one to swallow this soup that knows nécoras.
Don’t forget me, when nothing is anymore. When the stars are no longer left to remind me, when not even from the trenches we will leave. Suddenly the pitillo whistles, movements are heard in the hill, just around the hall, a snoring, something, someone who whispers, as if it were still a flower field. There is the neighbor, or he was a neighbor, it doesn’t matter. It was a sleeping in the valley of his bunk with the bullet to the heart. The hours are refining the tar and, thus, drunk, drunk to the core, we heard time pass, we hear the trumpets, grow the grass, blow the winds, that nobody takes away the dance.
One would like to stand up, wiggle the back one last time, such as when they were verbena times. Suddenly, one gets smiling, smiles like a sparrow. Remember the forgetfulness that we will be, the party of those who danced under the starry sky. The eyes were greenish, of herbs from yesteryear, of those who buzz in the throat and leave you stiff to the first drink. There you have it now, all made a kid, a kid. He bends down to take the pyvenue butts. We are back, in the tavern that no longer exists. There, in that Valley of the Greens, chamuscado, with the liquor that spreads throughout the body.
We are back in that valley, that of green eyes before forests. Listen. They will be the wolves. Or they will be the men with their shaved heads. They will be them who go down to the people. Down there are the nests with their loose houses, a handful of huts that are among the buttocks of the hills. There are the houses with their windows that wiggle the tail, happy to know that they come, that the wolves, that the men return. Don’t forget me. One day I have been. One day I have lived in the middle of those green.
Remember me always when I had the blood that did not stop dancing, when the wind touched the bagpipes to the singing of the rooster. And so, under the sky, bass of the sun that falls to the peak, remind me giving brushes, releasing pellets until he burst, from when life climbed, he became wings, from when we were birds and we knew what it was to fly without being afraid of the Grandullona.