One Hundred Years of Solitude

say, going through the cards.
A person can put out his hand
and the birds will come to
feed. Sometimes, over a
watercolor of Venice,
nostalgia would transform the
smell of mud and putrefying
shellfish of the canals into the
warm aroma of flowers.
Amaranta would sigh, laugh,
and dream of a second
homeland of handsome men
and beautiful women who
spoke a childlike language