Snow is covering Paris. It falls into the sacred hearts. It falls falling apart in the dark waters of the Seine. He languidly falls over the silence in the old Montparnasse cemetery. It snows on my steps, on my hands, on the tracks that have brought me here. It snows in the corners and corners of all the words. And it snows on a grave. But the snow cannot cover its name. It cannot cover, Cortazar.
© Ginés Castillo