should not mourn because the plants grow on your balcony, there
be sad if the blonde once again the clouds race
reiterates you immobile, so that remain in flight. For the cloud will be there, constant in its inconstancy
when you, when I-but why nominate dust and ash.
Yes, we were wrong to believe that the crossing of the day was ephemeral, water running down the leaves to sink into the ground.
lasts only ephemeral, that stupid plant that ignores the tortoise, the tortoise soft groping in eternity with hollow eyes and the sound without music, without singing word, intercourse without a cry of agony, the towers of corn, the blind hills. We
, handcuffed to a consciousness that is the time, we do not act of terror and delight, and his executioners eyelids gently tear us to let us see how they grow relentlessly
balcony plants, how are the clouds the future.
What does this mean? Nada, a cup of tea. There is drama in the murmur, and you are the outline of paper scissors are spared the report: O vanity of believing that one is born or dies, when the only thing real is the gap that remains on paper, the golem we still sobbing in her sleep and forgotten.
Julio Cortázar, the teacher
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