The Mayans who abandonded their prodigious cities every fifty-two years because of unknown reasons all the katunes waited for the end of the world, they never unveil their true names. They would risk having their souls stolen! The Mayans honored, nevertheless, the “masters of the words”. Pleasantly they offered cocoa, precious currency, to the words forgers more resistant than the stones of their abolished pyramids. Let’s praise poetry, let’s praise love, let’s praise friendship! What a pity, Hans Magnus, that you are not in the corolla of this summer in whose terrace Cecilia and Sofía walk, better than these grapes but not better than my daughter who is a hundred days old and who will last more than Napoleon’s government. Let’s celebrate poetry, let’s celebrate love, let’s celebrate friendship! Life is short. “Life happens like the Azores islands”, lamented Maiakovski. And what else gives? I accept that mi body will be a feast for the beetles, on condition of transforming myself in tree and then in butterfly and then in lichen and then in light. There is a fly who sniffs from five kilometers away the smell of death and flies straight to the bed of the dying. It is okay. But there is also the sun, the wine and the bodies of our women! And our craft: we collected words. The word is a turret from which it is watched tenaciously the night and meanwhile comes the time of combat, like in all the garrisons we play cards, we drink, we fornicate, we laugh out loud at the cold that one day will go through that door waving its marshal cane. Today we will walk across the forest, we will look for a guitar, we will bathe in forbidden ponds. Life is shit, life is sublime. And Cecilia and Sofía know it. And more than anybody my daughter who has slanted eyes, the eyes of her Mongolian great grandfather who shivering crossed the Behring strait more than in his igloo warming up with the fires that lighted up his word collectors. The word! That astonished Atahualpa. When Hernando de Soto galloped at him and stopped his horse one meter away from his sacred person, the Divine didn’t move and then ordered to hang the cowards who escaped from the prodigious monster like chicken feathers but when he met the books, “the papers that spoke” he fainted. What a pity, Hans Magnus, that you are not here with us biting not into peaches but enigmas, or going through your childhood or my childhood or simply hearing the wind the wind that will blow away the walls, the men, the beasts, the words, the dreams.