It seems that a guayabera is flying among lilac mists, like a handkerchief on the edge of the rails where a train of old steamships raises the ashes Eliseo Alberto de Diego and García Marruz in a sea of all green called Arroyo Naranjo, so close to Havana that It takes an eternity to get there.
The almanacs say that Eliseo Alberto celebrates a decade on the fly today, ten years after having vanished like the stories he told by spreading the fingers of his left hand, crying every turn of the plots that he cooked with the same care with which he tended the stove in the kitchen.
'When it rains in CDMX', by Jorge F. Hernández
'La mala leche', by Jorge F. Hernández
Lichi was my older brother, making me a jimagua of Fefé, a disciple of Papa Eliseo and Tía Fina, a survivor thanks to Constante, whom we call Rapi, Conrad's twin like his father in a family ship where I was allowed to sail up to today's Sun. of a generous tree, inexhaustible sap of various knowledge with a murmur of melancholy so delicious that it makes you want to cry all night with a beating jaw, with six strings in the fresco that forms on the porch of an old house in Havana, in the pure warmth of affection where a flower is a metaphor for the hummingbird that longs to taste, even from a distance, red lips.
Lychee is my ghost of every day and not a single stretch of life passes without her quiet voice, her pure prose, her improvised tenths verses and that way of laughing or crying with a cough that got stuck in the shadows. in the throat. He was a giant who just by bending one knee, feigning a step, made the world dance and a glassy gaze that always sought harmony among those imprisoned on the island as much as those condemned to miss it. He was a storyteller of the moment and today he would be the victim of the foolish desire for constant verification, but he lived in this world in years when he could still unleash all his palpable imagination with a verbal conviction that no one would imagine that it was all about of pure literature, living prose of convincing and shared illusion.He enchanted the eyes of others in castles and predicates, verbs and nicknames that became characters right there in the middle of nowhere and then sat down to digest the food that he always shared with others to pay for the reading as dessert - sometimes for whole hours — of the novel that was curdling in the dim light on the screen of his desk, where he played chess with the dead great masters and looked askance at the endearing photographs of their affections as if it were an altar of the Charity of Copper.where he played chess with the dead great masters and looked askance at the endearing photographs of their affections as if it were an altar of the Charity of Copper.where he played chess with the dead great masters and looked askance at the endearing photographs of their affections as if it were an altar of the Charity of Copper.
Lichi sat at the imaginary keyboard of the piano that he always longed to play like his cousin José María and spent the hours on a balcony where one morning his brother Rapi, reincarnated as a pigeon, arrived to cucurrucucule in his ear that everything continues and everything is fine there on the beach of eternity that begins on Monday and that never ends, where the footprints of poets with capital letters do not leave traces ... now that Lychee himself has been walking that sand for ten years, levitating the paragraphs that he left in ink and the many books that were left behind. duty ... the intact memory of a path of palm trees inclined in reverence to so many good people together who walk with their shadow, to the tumbao of melancholy as systole and diastole of a limpid biography of lyrics that are already spun forever in the verses of Cintio,at the bottom of the other cousin in a gathering vanished from so much life that Lichi infected since dawn without twilight on the immense board of the years that sadly add up for the record that the flourishing word of a certain Eliseo Alberto de Diego and Garcia Marruz.
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