Brother:
I tell you so, as we liked to say things of life: I miss you. I'm not used to your absence, and I used to. I resigned myself to not feel your hug, and I resign. I miss your eyes, clear-eyed, deep, terrible in anger a few days, and generous, almost always, as a wind protector and warmer than the 1st all covered.
I remember your hands, strong, friend and craftsman, hot iron forge were working hard, and end up poetry like that, one day forging it gave me as a sculptor of nature, with the exact curvature to be a little bent reed by the wind in the afternoon, I keep in my study as a sentinel .0 hidden among papers that knife, made in your days of Peugeot worker with broadleaf and powerful, with a bone handle, caressing hand like a glove fine and permanent. 0 the club of hard wood, one piece, dark and medieval nails, ready like you always, to fight the battle to be given. 0 Bone mate, hang gaucho way of our grandfather, Tata, with a stork drawn, looking through the material, your patience wise man, that by the hours and time were others.
can not be, I say to each step, if I'm listening to your voice grave, when I was given something done for those tanned hands, and that heart full of affection, and told me "take it, the 1st did for you" and nothing else .
And nothing more "knowing that''the 1st all other" was always lying like a blanket, or a meal prepared for some unknown traveler. Always expected and always had as a magician, invented something, an object, an ancient legend, a different word that caught in the workshop, no schedules, no permits to operate without paying taxes, without actually being long in this world . but it was your life, your way, your soles and your days.
It was a workshop, was a house, a square, a parliament of one or many.
A place to go with an excuse or anything. To talk a lot, argue or fall behind the mat, scanning the horizon as if the city, the plains and foothills. 0 back to a gin and friendly dogs as friends. It was impossible to be a customer. You asked for a fence, a door, window, and went out with life by asking questions, talking about the evening, the coup, the soldiers. It was a workshop, he had, almanacs football or cars, like everyone else. Had a "no save yourself," Benedetti written on the walls. Evita somewhere, or che somewhere in between tools, or Neruda, or a Russian poet who can not remember the name. It was a workshop without photo frames, with many tobacco with absent colleagues pinned to the soul, and deep, but depth of your eyes. There was everything but des warrantless order. A small universe for harmony, a real thinking workshop.
the 1st I say again, I will not get used. And third, I repeat, they cry for you every time remember your fury, your honest hatred of injustice, your hatred away from civic virtue, but so close companion blood of the people who always defended. Like now, the 1st you say, I can not write because I'm also crying because I feel your skin, your beard, muscular arm, the huge presence that gesture end of each lecture: return, so these days keep talking.
In the 1st best, everything is wrong. And I'm thinking wrong and should not mourn for your memory. It may take your strength as a drink and go to hit the houses one by one, your desire for beauty as a given that I may have to wake up every morning, reread your books and crumpled pages, such as roads, spaces ways, your voice, like a wind, a hurricane energetic and voracious your hands like two ideas and creations, your eyes as bridges to the other, and your embrace, like a tree, to look with you, all seasons, colors and life.
you tell the 1st and, as we say things like: I'm wrong, because you are with me, until your thick wool sweater feel yet. We are together, my soul brother, anywhere and anything. To defend ourselves, hurting, fighting, friends. To be different as we were. To be without seeing each other, nor speak, as we did. To speak and care. To reinvent the games of childhood, being Viking warriors or Roman, waving your wooden swords, they admired neighborhood friends. To share the fears we had, a hope or a star.
To listen to some music, a tango or flamenco, or talk about our father and his abiding presence in our lives. To speak of the old, the mother as mother. To talk about our children. Of love, of women. We were a thousand things to do, to speak, by surprise. We were hugging in the air and laugh a lot because we went, indeed, a bit poor with laughter and we take life too in the breast.
But you see they were wrong. Without realizing it, I engage with you in another chat. In the 1st the 1st time we had better be the 1st gave to others, the effort, to politics, a1 thought, to argue for Peron, by avoiding, for Che, Fidel, Roses, by the world, religion, strikes, and all ...
is true we are together. I do not want to provoke tears, as sometimes happens, forgetfulness, which is unfair. Name you provided your story to many things, so you're always there. He was wrong then, you're with me, but just miss you until 1os bones.
May 2007
I tell you so, as we liked to say things of life: I miss you. I'm not used to your absence, and I used to. I resigned myself to not feel your hug, and I resign. I miss your eyes, clear-eyed, deep, terrible in anger a few days, and generous, almost always, as a wind protector and warmer than the 1st all covered.
I remember your hands, strong, friend and craftsman, hot iron forge were working hard, and end up poetry like that, one day forging it gave me as a sculptor of nature, with the exact curvature to be a little bent reed by the wind in the afternoon, I keep in my study as a sentinel .0 hidden among papers that knife, made in your days of Peugeot worker with broadleaf and powerful, with a bone handle, caressing hand like a glove fine and permanent. 0 the club of hard wood, one piece, dark and medieval nails, ready like you always, to fight the battle to be given. 0 Bone mate, hang gaucho way of our grandfather, Tata, with a stork drawn, looking through the material, your patience wise man, that by the hours and time were others.
can not be, I say to each step, if I'm listening to your voice grave, when I was given something done for those tanned hands, and that heart full of affection, and told me "take it, the 1st did for you" and nothing else .
And nothing more "knowing that''the 1st all other" was always lying like a blanket, or a meal prepared for some unknown traveler. Always expected and always had as a magician, invented something, an object, an ancient legend, a different word that caught in the workshop, no schedules, no permits to operate without paying taxes, without actually being long in this world . but it was your life, your way, your soles and your days.
It was a workshop, was a house, a square, a parliament of one or many.
A place to go with an excuse or anything. To talk a lot, argue or fall behind the mat, scanning the horizon as if the city, the plains and foothills. 0 back to a gin and friendly dogs as friends. It was impossible to be a customer. You asked for a fence, a door, window, and went out with life by asking questions, talking about the evening, the coup, the soldiers. It was a workshop, he had, almanacs football or cars, like everyone else. Had a "no save yourself," Benedetti written on the walls. Evita somewhere, or che somewhere in between tools, or Neruda, or a Russian poet who can not remember the name. It was a workshop without photo frames, with many tobacco with absent colleagues pinned to the soul, and deep, but depth of your eyes. There was everything but des warrantless order. A small universe for harmony, a real thinking workshop.
the 1st I say again, I will not get used. And third, I repeat, they cry for you every time remember your fury, your honest hatred of injustice, your hatred away from civic virtue, but so close companion blood of the people who always defended. Like now, the 1st you say, I can not write because I'm also crying because I feel your skin, your beard, muscular arm, the huge presence that gesture end of each lecture: return, so these days keep talking.
In the 1st best, everything is wrong. And I'm thinking wrong and should not mourn for your memory. It may take your strength as a drink and go to hit the houses one by one, your desire for beauty as a given that I may have to wake up every morning, reread your books and crumpled pages, such as roads, spaces ways, your voice, like a wind, a hurricane energetic and voracious your hands like two ideas and creations, your eyes as bridges to the other, and your embrace, like a tree, to look with you, all seasons, colors and life.
you tell the 1st and, as we say things like: I'm wrong, because you are with me, until your thick wool sweater feel yet. We are together, my soul brother, anywhere and anything. To defend ourselves, hurting, fighting, friends. To be different as we were. To be without seeing each other, nor speak, as we did. To speak and care. To reinvent the games of childhood, being Viking warriors or Roman, waving your wooden swords, they admired neighborhood friends. To share the fears we had, a hope or a star.
To listen to some music, a tango or flamenco, or talk about our father and his abiding presence in our lives. To speak of the old, the mother as mother. To talk about our children. Of love, of women. We were a thousand things to do, to speak, by surprise. We were hugging in the air and laugh a lot because we went, indeed, a bit poor with laughter and we take life too in the breast.
But you see they were wrong. Without realizing it, I engage with you in another chat. In the 1st the 1st time we had better be the 1st gave to others, the effort, to politics, a1 thought, to argue for Peron, by avoiding, for Che, Fidel, Roses, by the world, religion, strikes, and all ...
is true we are together. I do not want to provoke tears, as sometimes happens, forgetfulness, which is unfair. Name you provided your story to many things, so you're always there. He was wrong then, you're with me, but just miss you until 1os bones.
May 2007
