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Premonition

was open long before that manila envelope.

The harshness with which I reported the disappearance of his son, was transformed into the pain of my mother, when at midnight you wake up with a strange premonition

Your were entering - he told me in the middle of my dreams, I hoped to sleep on the floor, sympathize with my hunch that find you somewhere completely checked out of this awful country, alone, shivering with cold and with almost no in the stomach. Then , you push the door with violence and our eyes were in the dark of night, like two huge fireflies.

And I found myself filled with dirt and corroded, frayed shoes, hair hanging from bushes grown and my rags, I remember that when you pull the door and kissed me as if it were that easy to catch happiness. A brimming with joy that I responded with a stand , you do on the ground, then you complain about your kidneys. was from that moment that both knew that I was dead.

However we have a feeling, a strange concern that as the day goes by in a really accurate diluted, perhaps daily or maybe not. That morning, for us, had little to do with everyday life, although deep inside we knew what our actions bore a scam that we refused to recognize. Your room was on the road of hope, the worst of my troubles and worse, was young and was never going to die.

Then I went by bicycle, death always arrives on a bicycle told me an old guitar he was leaving the binges riding a bicycle and made an eyesore end collision with a truck. I instead was arrested by an army battalion required to identify, and allegedly attacked a militant guerrilla group.

I was sixteen days in captivity, full of mud and starving until one night shortly after that meeting of eyes, a coup de grace I sank into the memory. I cremated and buried in a sewer, a year after ceasing to exist for half of my people and I've been gone nine years, only exist for the hope of my mother.

remember one evening walked up and down these mountains desert where you lost me. That afternoon walked so much and find myself not you sit on a rock, in the same place where I had buried, I wanted to join my ashes in your eyes and wake up to no longer sleep on the floor. Not the case here, but yesterday came a manila envelope, in it an outline of these arid mountains where I burn and the names of my murderers.

feel that you have much work, knocking on doors and mourn in the interviews but I know that is the only way you sleep a little quieter.