it's not a bad site. I warned that the winter would be cruel, that I could go really wrong. I whispered to begging in the streets could stay icicle. It is true that sometimes I bite the air and not feel my toes, or chilblains I grow as larvae in the flesh of the ears. But suffered from cold in my country, when that icy wind howled and night. Not to mention the time spent on the hill, surrounded by soldiers. Those other times they were fierce. Times swords and thorns. So now I beg reciting verses, I have a repertoire wide and, without sin of vanity, pretty decent. No one ever listens to Gabriela Mistral in the street, or sweet sonnets Rubén Darío. People move across quickly, and sometimes loose coins in amazement, stop: a young mother on a small cane workers, people look at me with a strange nostalgia.
Sometimes, however, I miss my home. While not believe it, I became a good carpenter. Built coffins for children and poets. Sometimes inscriptions made by hand. But, well, that was long ago, it seems that centuries have passed, moss-coated nails, when I hung that fucking cross.
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