They say that at night, when the curtain of the last function falls, the theater closes its doors, the terraces are empty, waiting sleepy the next song of the rooster and the vagabonds close in their houses of dreams and cardboard, the Moon descends For a moment on the ground and crossing the Plaza de Santa Ana, he poses a kiss of friendship on the bronze cheeks of the poet.

They also assure that they light up with the same flush as if they were meat and that Federico's eyes turn into carbuncles of light and grana, that look with touching nostalgia on those same sidewalks, whose own steps are diluted in time, with the same fragility as the frustrated dreams that his twin brother, called Autumn, carries with him.

Federico smiles. And opening his hands, those same hands born to be anvil in the hammer of the pen, he lets out a white dove, which he keeps safely in his tin chest, and his tongue, silver and gold, you hear him sing : 'fly, fly, hope. Do not ever stop flying. '

Later, when the street sweepers come closer, he puts his hands back on the metal lap and his soul recounts lambs with rattles, falling asleep again in his comfortable fold of Eternity.

Small tribute to Federico García Lorca (Fuente Vaqueros, Granada, June 5, 1898 - road from Víznar to Alfácar, Granada, 1936). Goodbye, goodbye, little Dove.

NOTICE: Both the text and the photographs that accompany it are my exclusive intellectual property.