One Hundred Years of Solitude

the mercy of the moths on the
shelf where Fernanda had
forgotten her wedding ring on
occasion and there it
remained, consuming itself in
the inner fire of its bad news
as the solitary lovers sailed
against the tide of those days
of the last stages, those
impenitent and ill-fated times
which were squandered on
the useless effort of making
them drift toward the desert
of disenchantment and