I – LA GUITARRA

The guitar begins to weep. The goblets of the dawn break. The guitar begins to weep, and it is useless to try to silence it – it is impossible to silence it. It weeps monotonously, as the water weeps, and as the wind weeps on fields of snow. It is impossible to silence it; it weeps for far-away things. The sand of the South, which longs for white camellias. It weeps like an arrow with no target, or an evening with no morning, and the first bird dead on a branch. Oh guitar! A h...