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At times
the afternoon is an enormous bee that flies absent minded, lazy with its bulky womb. Bee, silent and lonely falling toward the night. At times the animal of the twilight moves its head and sinks its snout between my legs and pursues the girls in the street and in the farm and in the banks of the rivers with its disguise of enormous and imploring man. The afternoon advances as a boat without oars and without hull, without silences, without children, without clocks without griefs. Simply advances toward the catastrophe of the light toward the explosions of the shadow. Other times fall the padlocks of the hours when the wolves forget its howls. The twilight in the meantime hardens and wears boots of steel to the night at times a bee dies and a sparkle interns in the entrails of the air. My nostalgia is a dish that eats hot the morning with its teeth of light. Gocho Bersolari
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