Joke: Forges All these parties are operations: the input-output and national roads and motorways in the new year, surgeons in plaster of the bones of those who went around and roll-on hood to fall into the gutter or the shoulder, the operations against the camels and donkeys laden with chocolate, Dermoestética of the officers that track star intermittent peace in Euskadi and operations stock brokers on the day of San Silvestre.
I prefer to imagine Christmas 2008 years ago with Mary registered the child, giving the breast, vaccinated against polio and whooping cough, changing diapers between thyme and rosemary and taking it to the operating room for surgery of adenoids.
I prefer to unplug the lights of Bethlehem to hear the hiccups of river fish, mend and do not take off the patch and placed on the portal a donkey "small, furry, soft, so soft on the outside, which would all cotton" such as Juan Ramón Jiménez.
I'm sick of Christmas. Toso with ads that sell us dreams. I high fever this winter nights frozen. Sneezing, and tell me Jesus, when I look at child birth of the libraries. Hawking silent tickets for my fever. And to top it off, I fall turkey runny nose. So I can only give them a little romance:
That we go another year,
like a thief, on tiptoe, turned in by the bathroom
lemon
bulbs. While beggars
dream Muscat
with kisses and exploit
polvorones
in the steppe of the tablecloth
house of the widow.
While playing grandmothers married
figs with walnuts that are entangled in the wheels, and the mayor hears
bells without knowing where or when promised not to be
grapes in the year that is coming. As I think
white necks and wrists of famous
where
jewelry pose as butterflies.
While there on our streets
charity works and traffic
tells us that we are at Christmas. That
two thousand eight is going and yet I have
cotillion
to do, if no remedy,
of my courage in both hands,
disguise, bubble babble nonsense
,
get drunk and shout about
Go Felister FIEC !
version of a text published in At bottom right
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