Trails dialogadas slowly, such as nightmares, had passed the weary days of acceptance of dogma school now had front an immense, never-ending world, with multiple pathways to the oblivion of forests and savannas, rivers and retostadas hills; beaches, ports and mangroves; bimbines, capisucias, and cirueleras; muletos rabbits, iguanas or cocalecas and were rude paved roads from erosion; they were hills that drove narrow roads embedded, white wounds, in a doughy land by the continuous transit of lean cows without grass, whose ribs wanted to escape to the sky were roads converted into spirals around those hills; and in the distance, the white walls of older houses were new herons. We dialogabamos and then watched in silence our people; It was a White Gull with its broken wings, abandoned in the middle of a sea of Brown, murky and green, frozen and hot water and true sea was not far away, more than a brief March sky blue tropical horizon was an incandescent metal sheet. We moved along the paths talking about us the wind was our voice and made her return turned into silence. Rene De Leon g. 25 November 1978 the old handle thirst tree climbing branch in branch. The time runs out, one by one, nearly to all the branches of the tree, which is banding on the dusty road that leads to anonymous port hidden among dark mangrove beaches. Under the old tree, the wind plays with the dust of the road.
Above, in its rough branches, the matapalos play to get drunk with SAP and to deposit the egg of the shadow and silence. Our childhood goes by and we haven’t seen spending time; We have just noticed that the tree has changed a lot lately; It has gradually been consumed by thirst and has been yielding its branches before the army of matapalos. The mango fruit already are not so close to the ground in the ravine on the other side of the road. Rene De Leon g. Panama, Panama. on August 2, 1979. Original author and source of the article.