I dreamt the purple afterglow of a tropical sky. Like those we used to see dying the waters of the febrile Paraná. And in my dream I said: «Surely this is the river, and surely it is the sky, we used to see». I looked around: nobody was there. Not even my shadow knew of the body which projected it. And these words were written in my mind: «You’ve died again».
So many times I’ve seen you in my dreams, my sweet old friend. So many times I’ve come across the phantom of your eyes, or walking pass the school of infancy I have recalled your face pressed against the iron fence, your hair in disarray. Each of those times, the words: «You’ve died again».
Oh yes, death repeats itself. We, the living, are its tireless manufacturers. You, the dead, its pure and raw material.