Out came the Sun this morning, when you came to the doors of my eyes. Me abrigaste, franco, and your chest a sigh that stretched to the horizon building at the time, escaped the path of oblivion. The Sun came out before sunrise and you were not, you party. Smiling look, tight fists, curled skin, thirst on the border of farewell. Sitting in front of the sea, the painter outlined figure of the Lady of the evening.

The colors sported to her around and a shadow is posed on the canvas from which spoke to him:-Why me looking, man, if I of the banishment of l burial have not come to soothe your pain? The painter, without amazement, undaunted, responded:-thou, maiden of the night, art the fullness that integrates my memories; without you I have no substantive, have no origin; I need you. -What can I give you noble Knight but the impurities of the Earth full of insects? -I’ll grains of honey that the Earth hides beneath the seed starch; you have to bring me the seeds that create life. -If my skin is split, and my bones affected, where you asiras not to fall into the swamp of useless sacrifices? -If your skin is your body and undone, gnawed, then discover the secrets that your gaze has hidden me. And I trepare to it and when the grooves are gone, I torcere the Sun to illuminate your bowels and your bowels tell me, finally, why they’re gone. -The furrows of the road have already opened their mouths and I’ve immersed me in them; Nothing remains of me, man of delirium, nothing more than infectious paroxysm.

The painter smiled before the occurrence, an audible chuckle came from the abyss; She rushed her hand wrapped around the colors of the day which moved away to width of the Bank and to the top of the gigantic waves. -Go to your home, man – he heard between bubbling waters – returns, embracing your wife and let the souls adoquinen their closures. The painter did not raise the gaze. Already his hands mistook with canvas, and this, with the gray sand of all time. When the sun appeared, the man He lay without breath, without heat, without skin; beside her maiden refulgia faint, but radiant. I looked with sadness the remains of the painter, at the same time repeated:-not both, both do not. Monica Maud. (Book I, sacrilegious) Santiago del Estero, Argentina. original author and source of the article.