Under the stem of the elm tree, caressed by greasy breezes of stingy remnants and smells of suburbia.
The sense of what. 
The medals we display are ancient pledges of war, 
of heroism and blood, over mosaic-paved roads on the way to Santiago.
Yet we loved the smell of gunpowder, 
the giddy runs 
And the nights spent drinking 
And building women's fantasies.
I think of the sense of it all, 
told in the novella of the usual Saturday,
all squeezed between the coils of cigarette smoke 
And boredom from the morning sweat.
The evening finally we drink again, 
anxieties slip into the shadows of sound, 
the usual club,
haunted by greasy stares 
And exaggeratedly shaggy, close-cropped hair.
Ikigai, the promise is renewed, 
but time flows lightly through the mountain clouds 
and the August journey to Catalonia. 
We will meet again to count the years that are missing 
And the needles pointed at the skin

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