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Calaveritas in culture


Make it a tragic scene

a whole drama, an event,

let me see every bone,

Be it a graphic novel!

That they bring him, to the Argentine,

He, the creator of Mafalda,

The soup, eternal the skirt,

I don’t know, was his name Quino?

Already present before the Grim Reaper,

the volunteer comedian

he drew a whole sample book,

of her, the Chief, the Matriarch.

What stop life, I want to get off!

the girl would have said sincerely,

but in the face of devious death,

Who stops death? Or is it chance?


The literary nobel

finally for a poet

unusual as a comet

in this age-old award.

The eye in the flowers

in wise strangeness,

you found in the undergrowth

of the tombs, their colors.

Death is a lily,

it’s a wild iris,

it’s gale, it’s delirium,

and it is, again, wild.

Louise came across as human

and loved at times,

poetry, profane language,

it was his love, daydreams.


Do, re, me, that’s his trill

deep inside the palace,

Tirana goes slowly

between each detune.

From the podium the baton

is Alondra de la Parra,

who is clever in music

and on guitar strings.

La Flaca is uncomfortable

Someone shade him

But of course it amazes him

De la Parra and his Ode.

Violin music

at a funeral in code,

music for such purposes,

yes from Alondra, yes from a bird.


Death was hiding there

between abstract painting,

death, finally, rotten

in silence, in secrecy.

Either clay or terracotta,

La Fría is fair in its form

No one, not even the eye, deforms it,

Not the sun not a single drop.

They call Felguérez to account,

for his art so diffuse,

others will say that confused,

but art at the end of the day.

Brought it to the cemetery,

because he wants his portrait,

and it’s not that I’m ungrateful

but she is a dread.