One Hundred Years of Solitude

Catalonians former
bookstore, conscious that he
was paying with his tardy
sobs for a death that he had
refused to weep for on time
so as not to break the spell of
love. He smashed his fists
against the cement wall of
The Golden Child, calling for
Pilar Ternera, indifferent to
the luminous orange disks
that were crossing the sky and
that so many times on holiday
nights he had contemplated