the prodigal king

Black sheep bleat in every family.

Before giving it up for lost, the misguided relative is usually applied

let's see if it fits.

He laughs at him.

He is punished.

You are begged.

It is called a chapter.

The word is withdrawn, and, in extreme cases, it is disinherited and it is made as if it did not exist.

It all depends, of course, on the magnitude of the misdeeds.

It's not the same, I don't know, a murderer, than a poor bastard who steals to feed his children, a drug addict, a tarambana, or a friendly urchin who ruins his life and that of his loved ones because of his greed and his lust, deadly sins of easy acquittal in the proper confessional.

The problem is when the gulf is the paterfamilias on which the survival of the entire clan depends.

It is then appropriate that the children adopt surgical measures if he does not take them himself.

Another thing is the internal wounds, and the scars.

On the eve of the announced visit to Spain by Juan Carlos I after two years of self-exile of shame, more than the foreseeable political earthquake, I am moved by the reunion of father and son, the roles reversed, within the walls of La Zarzuela.

How will they look?

How long will the hug last?

Will there be tears?

Who will lower their eyes?

What will they say to each other's faces and ears, although I am sure they have spoken when and how much they wanted to?

We will never know, and it is well that it is.

One thing is the pain of a son in the face of the physical and moral decline of the father, and another the dignity of a country that sees how its former head of state returns from his golden hiding place to have a regatta with his friends as if nothing had happened and without saying a word. this mouth is mine

We Spaniards are not subjects,

although some seem to long for the dislocations caused by their bows in Juan Carlos's kissing hands, without knowing, or knowing, that those who most flatter him are the ones who do the most damage to the Crown that they claim to defend with their lives.

The trail of syrup that they secrete does not hide the opprobrium of a man who, with his conduct, has destroyed his legacy, and of a king who, with his refusal to assume his guilt, leaves his successor to the Republican feet.

I bet, on the plane that brings you back to the helm of the

leaves his successor at the feet of the Republicans.

I bet, on the plane that brings you back to the helm of the

leaves his successor at the feet of the Republicans.

I bet, on the plane that brings you back to the helm of the

—there are well-appointed names— the Emeritus will whistle the immortal corrido by Vicente Fernández: “A stone on the road taught me that my destiny was to roll and roll.

I have no throne, no queen, no one who understands me, but I'm still the King."

He deluded.

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