One Hundred Years of Solitude

with tiny yellow flowers had
taken root. The new place
seemed to please Melquíades,
because he was never seen
any more, not even in the
dining room, He only went to
Aurelianos workshop, where
he would spend hours on end
scribbling his enigmatic
literature on the parchments
that he had brought with him
and that seemed to have been
made out of some dry
material that crumpled like