One Hundred Years of Solitude

memory of her with an old
love that was exalted by tardy
repentance and a sudden
admiration, coming to
understand that only she,
Rebeca, the one who had
never fed of her milk but only
of the earth of the land and
the whiteness of the walls, the
one who did not carry the
blood of her veins in hers but
the unknown blood of the
strangers whose bones were
still clocing in their grave.