--for my brother, Jose Luis
Moonlight caressed the bars of the prison cell. And, suspended, at a distance, was a music which was no music but merely the echo of the wind, the echo of a grievous loneliness, an echo that overflowed with cries of animals and earthly groans...; the iron bars, unyielding and unchanging, prevented him from enjoying the vital beauty of nature.
His eyes, as ecstatic as those bars, looked at the moon projecting a soul so large it made the moon its prisoner.
Outside of his cell, within his dungeon, his solitude wove together the sounds of distant steps on the marsh, over the tall walls that shut the sky out of the prison, while the soldier paced back and forth, scattering the rays of moonlight, the sharp edge of the bayonet rose over his shoulder in silhouette.
Was it after midnight? Perhaps not. For the night does not run its course for a prisoner, it prolongs itself like a shadow that slips ever farther from the light. The night never ends as the cold bars of the prison like iron hands strangle him: The night in his empty, lugubrious cell, has no end. Why would it come to an end if a day is but another long, long night?
--The night never ends....It will never end...--but the prisoner felt that caressing the bars, he caressed the moon. The night felt like a cold rail he didn't want to release. He grasped onto the bars.
--When night is over, they will arrive...--he told himself--. The day will never again begin for me. They'll arrive before dawn. They'll murder me! And for what? Yet, I know this. I also know that they will come for me.
--They will come....they will come....they will come...--he said to himself as the echoes of each memorized word ricocheted within him. And when he no longer thought of the words, the sound of their echo pounded from their final syllables..., repeating them mechanically, with more and more power, like the heart appears to palpitate faster and faster when the breath is suspended and the air that was withheld at last is exhausted.
--Well, why shouldn't they come?--the prisoner asked himself mutely before the moon--Let them come.
--Let them come..., let them come..., let them come...., let them cooooomeeee! Come onnnnnn! his conscience echoed each time stronger, until it voiced a long and screeching scream.
Moonlight caressed the bars of the prison cell. And, suspended, at a distance, was a music which was no music but merely the echo of the wind, the echo of a grievous loneliness, an echo that overflowed with cries of animals and earthly groans...; the iron bars, unyielding and unchanging, prevented him from enjoying the vital beauty of nature.
His eyes, as ecstatic as those bars, looked at the moon projecting a soul so large it made the moon its prisoner.
Outside of his cell, within his dungeon, his solitude wove together the sounds of distant steps on the marsh, over the tall walls that shut the sky out of the prison, while the soldier paced back and forth, scattering the rays of moonlight, the sharp edge of the bayonet rose over his shoulder in silhouette.
Was it after midnight? Perhaps not. For the night does not run its course for a prisoner, it prolongs itself like a shadow that slips ever farther from the light. The night never ends as the cold bars of the prison like iron hands strangle him: The night in his empty, lugubrious cell, has no end. Why would it come to an end if a day is but another long, long night?
--The night never ends....It will never end...--but the prisoner felt that caressing the bars, he caressed the moon. The night felt like a cold rail he didn't want to release. He grasped onto the bars.
--When night is over, they will arrive...--he told himself--. The day will never again begin for me. They'll arrive before dawn. They'll murder me! And for what? Yet, I know this. I also know that they will come for me.
--They will come....they will come....they will come...--he said to himself as the echoes of each memorized word ricocheted within him. And when he no longer thought of the words, the sound of their echo pounded from their final syllables..., repeating them mechanically, with more and more power, like the heart appears to palpitate faster and faster when the breath is suspended and the air that was withheld at last is exhausted.
--Well, why shouldn't they come?--the prisoner asked himself mutely before the moon--Let them come.
--Let them come..., let them come..., let them come...., let them cooooomeeee! Come onnnnnn! his conscience echoed each time stronger, until it voiced a long and screeching scream.
