In his many years was still unpublished, but there was a consecrated poet did not have any prestigious award, although with a natural flower in spring games of the neighborhood association, the fair flower in her district and a small-runners who testified of their involvement in bankruptcy and having been read. The applause of his friends sounded academic and that was enough. "There is little, he had told his aunt Engracia," if you were better known the prize was yours. " It happened that one day in May, a Friday the 13th, while Fatima hymns to the Virgin rose and crossed themselves elsewhere and were spraying to get rid of the curses of the fateful conjunction of that date, a breeze started and unknown malicious page its daily and his poems were lost from the leaves of autumn in the southern hemisphere way of anything.
The poet mourning the loss and returned to watch over and over again in your Blogger page, but his disappointment did not reach the magical effects of the wind to return what had drawn no known destination. In his bitterness, he wanted to compose a lay hurt. Assonance rhyme in verse of six syllables he was poor for much pain and grief, was then tested with three-line stanzas and a pentameter heptasílabos final forming step with the second verse. Tired no good measure, he became desperate and pulled a thousand times smudged sheet to leave the bloc fleeced. Again looking at Blogger without success and gloom grew older.
When
found that other poets of his neighborhood had renewed creative activity and inspired creations hung on their blogs, while he was still dreaming of the leaf torn by the wind evil and noted the artist as drought end of an era uninterrupted may never see renewed, locked himself in the occult of himself, took two turns to the key of his desk and well stocked with tissues, devoted to mourn with despair, knowing that was all that was left to do and what he dictated his barren heart of a poet.
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