Prepare the cards and the tarpaulins that we go away from this earth. Put in a lot anejo, a jen jen embalmed and a tobacco leaf. Detach the portrait of Che and give it to a tourist, now that is just a souvenir of the socialist dream.
R. Goracci
Autumn blacks hung from the branches of trees like a ripe fruit last in the pouring rain while the silence was accompanied through the streets narrow alleys of downtown, between the old houses and pastel-colored walls that dripped the colonial nostalgia. Smell cigars. The trolley
walked in docile white hand.
The mouth was made of smoke.
The door creaked in opening up the room, the few patrons looked up absently. The blades of the ceiling moving the moist air. A complessino granted in the tools.
rum into the glasses was the color of a warm embrace. The taste of a hot country proud, the men bent to cut sugar cane, of evenings spying on the moon between the palms.
"I ordered for you," he said to justify the two glasses.
She moved the chair and hung his coat and umbrella.
He put his face in his hands and smiled. Like certain Madonnas behind the altar.
Sipping rum into the glasses.
When they came out of the rain had only the puddles, while the sea stretched its waves on Malecon.
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