Although I'm not certain, there seems to be a person standing at the end of this street.
That person holds in his hands something like a trombone, but it could be a broom, or merely a stick. He also wears a top hat adorned with several feathers.
The sun is coming up and there's a red gleam that dazzles me and makes me think I'm seeing things that aren't there. Crossing the street, from one sidewalk to another, is a small, grey, agile cat. The houses look liked they've been washed, as though it had just rained and I feel the same anxiety from when I was a child and spring would arrive. Everything was perfumed by chinaberries, a sparkling sun put an end to sadness, to all illnesses, to exhaustion and to death.
This is when the night ends, my eyelids close and I'm cold. Despite everything, I am smiling and I greet the man with the trombone.
"Excuse me, weren't you wearing a green tie yesterday?"
"That wasn't me."
"I'm sure it was, I recognize you from the feathers in your hat."
"There are thousands of these pigeons all over the church rooftops."
"Do you live in a church? Are you a saint? Can you make everything different?"
"Things are already different at each moment."
"Well, then. We can begin."
"Yes, let's begin."
Traducción de Guillermo Parra
De: ¨Libretas doradas, lápices de carbón¨ Editorial Lector Cómplice, 2013