Week #21 Fox tales | Profane Love.

His thumbs closed his eyes for the last time, while he recalled with great sadness those days that together passed, every corner of the house, all the moments of shared joys, the evenings of readings that used to enjoy in that reading room That together they conditioned once, his voice as he read very close to his ear as she posed resting on his breast, knew that all those days lay with him in his last breath. Also recalling the words of his already deceased only love, love that was sick with the passing of time, but both loved the nuance of that romance, eccentricities that only they were allowed. Before he died he gave him as a gift to always accompany her, her skull, that once the deceased extracted her from her grave and that in her sad or cheerful moments her spirit would descend from heaven in order to contemplate it for all eternity.

The time passed and she did not come to her macabre appointment, and only heard in dreams a voice of claim to her promise. That night like all proceeded to go to his room until a voice inside his head rumbled again with much more weight, making her go back and forth as a soul carrying the devil, but not of the fright she could feel, but of the grief she felt of not having Come before the prominent appointment. After a couple of days he decided to relate his feat.

Wednesday, May 2, 1978.

The night was full of darkness and wind, drowned in rain and thunder. The sea as hungry lion roared in the distance. My heart was almost heard miles from that sinister and dead place of terror violent the wall of the dead, I immediately felt its imposing presence in that old cemetery, full of ruins and macabre shadows. Nothing will change, you'll always be there, watching me though your eyes can no longer see me

Wandered for hours in the gloomy ways of the desert cemetery, so come to my destiny surrounded by crowns and saints, a lamp gave me the shine, I broke his marble with a hammer, a gust pestilent, a strong smell of death. At the bottom of the box between bandages and mordajas, boiling waves worms slowly devoured some foul remains, the pain seized my tearing all the darkness and silence with a cry of sorrow to see my only love being devoured and without being the shadow of what one day was , of his bright eyes were two large hollows, and of that mouth that was so passionate, a silent and terrible laugh

From that man who shined that Astro, there was not even a trace, was a report and corrupted rag. I looked grieved, dumb, inert. Meditated in the feasts of death and I sank into the sepulchre open to Tajo. Trembling dipped my hands, to the immense hive of worms, I sought from the throat the seams; Nervous and impatient flew with my eyes sunk in tears; There was bone-snatching and broken bones, until I saw the graves.

I fled with fear among the shadows. Imagining that dead in grinning bands as millions of Lazaros would rise up running to rescue his skull, that Yerta and silent companion of the gloomy night out of nowhere.

That happened 40 years ago, today at my table which final rubble of its beauty, frost, molt, livid and inert on my books in heap rests, which a gigantic white rose that boasts the laughter of death!

When I die pretty skull you will accompany me to eternity..!