The city is as grey as weariness.
Crowds walk along empty streets.
The past is a mixture of discolored prides.
And mangling horrors.
The men who are alone do not wait any more.
The father is dead.
He was not even assassinated.
Spitting upon his children.
The children died as well.
Those who did not die, spit.
There are deceiving mirrors that distort the contours.
False or true?
How do we know where love gives way to fear?
A blind man points out the light.
Prophets get drunk in brothels.
Thieves forgive those who were cheated.
Some twisted masks toast us.
Sinners.
They get ready to see the spectacle.
There are teeth moving amidst the taste of salt.
To rip them out or to continue biting them.
The air is damp and cold.
In the empty houses, consciences are clear.
They prepare for sleeplessness.
But everything shines and is in order.
As it should be.
There is only one doubt.
Wich tie should be worn at one's own funeral?

Eduardo Gil
1992