“But Paris was a very old city and we were young and nothing was simple there, not even poverty, nor sudden money, nor the moonlight, nor right and wrong nor the breathing of someone who lay beside you in the moonlight.”

E. Hemingway.
"París era una fiesta"

Saturday, 3 October 2015

Little fall tale

First came the crone. She pointed a rusty finger at his chest and said: "I know that band, my boys used to listen to it, long ago. They are old now, over fifty years old, but I remember: it means Alternate Current Direct Current. Nice memories, those are...", and then she left, carrying her hump and her sweet eyes.

So came the elf. He pointed an alien finger at his chest and said: "You. You like rock. Here...", and gave him a tiny card full of metal. Then he was gone, and gone were his norse smile and his worn out shoes.

Left was the father, who turned to the wind and said: "Tell the story." 

"Tell the story", said the wind to the hare.
"Tell the story", said the hare to the bats.
"Tell the story", said the bats to the witch.

And so she did.

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¡Habla, pueblo de Aura!