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| Elias Cuellar | Moro
agree in Merida, four or five years ago and has since exchanged letters and printed treasures, friendships and common affections.
long ago published a book, I remember (Calambur, 2009) filled with wondrous images and suggestive. Generational memory, full of shared memories, vibrant.
"I remember the shoe box where he kept silkworms and their miraculous metamorphosis.
I remember the drum covers Columbus and how we played with them making them fly.
I remember an aunt in the early years of the TV, staring at the screen, muttering to himself, as muttered: `What will we them to us? "."
In the same email I sent this photo from your library: books Crusaders, a flashlight and binoculars flask smuggling bought, for almost thirty years, a Russian sailor in Ferrol, selling snuff, radios, condoms ...
also sent me this poem, entitled Library.
Philip Roth once told me the secret of death his father,
Manrique once told me the secret of the death of his father,
Raymond Carver once told me the secret of the death of his father
; paris rain in a downpour when Caesar left us,
lamp word overlooks the water pit guillermo,
ate onions and molluscs with gluttonous neruda,
, a infamous mob sings songs sailors in the pampa
a sword wielding buccaneer, burt lancaster
is making fun of us on the cover of a volume,
; the magic quarter rafael speaks about the craft of sleep,
lorca's face disappears into five pieces before it hits the curtain
calvin robinson crusoe questioned about the authority and disasters,
; Hikmet's exile would be another poem spoon river
when faulkner horse walks slowly killing whiskey
birds marianne age of boredom in the Antilles of walcott,
; one hundred haikus to kafka downplaying the secret of the cherry,
and hospitals overseas an old seaman,
ilona who loved the rain,
; peels dull their memories of love war and
burn losses while another country,
by a strange paradox, with live cold,
tiny lives to mouth, animals
melancholy walk to the place of defeat,
; the memory of snow moves through the horizon
; as an ancient comet in the hands of the boys,
under the dark secret of the consular cards,
poisons book flies poetics
; even in this refuge, by a hidden reason
are printed on all my fingerprints,
any one lie with me every night of my life
; as live and composed an epitaph
settle three yellow roses at the grave of Chekhov
dogs bark
