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I know they are just songs. Old songs that are very plot occasionally forgotten. But what would we be without them. Without his memory. Without that rhymes substrate we hibernates inside the heat waiting for the cups and shared snuff.

The night music engenders. In the songs come
magnet memoirs,
piano tune, the guitar and almost dust, violin
eaten for years, the maracas that sound like bones
.

José Emilio Pacheco

Who does not remember the songs of his life, who did not chant in exalted moments of friendship and joy, as if he had lost forever any traces of the stories of his childhood. For when the years we are changing, becoming seemingly wiser, but inevitably more distant the songs we were not deleted from the soul, they speak better than we were, what we might yet again become disenchanted with lime only scratching the time.


Blood has reasons that make fat veins. Pena
grief and sorrow over
make a paste the scream.
Sand is a handful ...
But there are mountains of sand.
Atahualpa Yupanqui