Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

Death does not let you say Goodbye Let no one come tell me I am guilty of this or that. True, the noise of knees falling on ground embellishes the soul, the noise of teardrops on blackened grass paves the way to what is always a return. Let no one come with his bouquets of dry flowers to leave on the grave where there should be a corpse, but there is no corpse, only eyes who know how terrible it is to look at nothing. So, let no one come to reveal what was disclosed before. Don't come to build walls around the house of the one who before being young was already old. Let no one stir the evil word whose center is an abyss, whose edge is a storm. Don't try to close the sutured wound, or bring evil violins to sweeten the unhealthy melody recognized by my agonizing chest: the asthma where my winter rears its dark birds, grows its fields of fog,  that night and day can no longer wait, it wants to be closed.

The Young Man on the Beach Without touching the ground his feet almost water, glide, very slowly on the brown sand's tinted foam. It is almost noon, above him the gulls sashay sweetly. The sea that created fury on the stones, does not dare do the same on his feet, it recoils, it does not return but in slow drops of dew, a less greedy blue. The wind plays its music, its cooing and turns into an impossible lover who finds in sadness the precise reason for attempting to put him sleep, to charm him, to make him its dream, its delight. Fragile as a branch about to break he clings to the old trunk, that way the wind binds to his deepest root, his hair waving like the flag of an exquisite country. Svelte as the air walking on tiptoe through tall palm trees, minimal as the cold, as the heart dawning in his most intimate light, immense as the sky that dwells in his pupils, becoming the word that day whispers to the ancient centur