Umuda Yolculuk

Think about women I not loved and one that was not loved. Hurt by what I didn’t do and what stopped doing. Live my own universe of unconnected, Ethereal and real beings. And, after the Insomniac starry night, the foggy and cold Dawn will host my soul delirious, you loan, unwillingly, to the eternal journey which is not returned. It carried no signature. The ink was old, yellow already, and the letter clear, slightly reclined. Sense and perhaps hurt poem.

Or painfully felt. Without metrics, without rhyme who had written it? Why was he there? Why had not seen it before? I reread it and left it on the table. And for a moment I felt beside me, very close, my friend Caesarius and his voice hoarse but full of nuances ciertamente. You told us that the muerteno is the end of the road, which, though we die, not a blind somoscarne destination.Thou hast made us. We are yours.Our destination is happy vivirsiendo with you, without suffering or suffer. Perhaps the author of what was written in that role had not met Cesareo Gabarain Azurmendi that rested in the bosom of the Lord at the age of fifty-five. Nihilism against faith.

The denial against hope. Predestination against freedom No. He had written Let me take a marked target, not by me not tallied with the last stanzas of Caesarius because dying live, clearer and better pregnant of future life. I returned to reality. Beethoven was still there the rain was still out and the paper on the table, seemed to be asking for forgiveness for making me think. I took it and I had a hint No. It was not a question of destroying it. Not judge it. Someone, at some point, for some reason, hurt maybe had reasons for this Jose Felix Salinas November 2009 original author and source of the article.