CAMAGÜEY.- Time. That is what life is all about. Do not deceive yourselves. Even these three missions of nobility poetically entrusted the human being: to have a son, to sow a tree and to write a book, are only affectionate ways of aspiring to penetrate the fences of our epoch.

The orders seem simple, but they are not. It will be for something that most of the mortal ones goes away of the world without fulfilling in its entirety the triple order: very often the love, the sensibility and the talent, which are three keys that open these doors, do not agree to inhabit the same body. And even doing it, it is possible that it trumps the luck. There are the cases in which the equation is not completed and children are had without poetry, trees without index, books without fruits …

We are not any more than hands of immense clock, galactic minute hands that we give substance to a time that transcend us. Despite the appearances, we did not create the almanacs to measure a time that is bottomless, but to mark the steps that under the pretext of individuals it is given to us to provide in the embodiment that touched us. That's why there are births without inscriptions, unions without anniversaries nor dead persons without epitaphs.

A son, a tree, a book … or who knows if two. Let's fertilize with clean desires a belly, a rut, a white sheet of paper. Let's enjoy the anxiety of making use of this time piece because often a life is not enough to live.

  • Translated by Linet Acuña Quilez