Spring: -I- -II- -III-
The Stamp Album: -IV- -V- -VI- -VII- -VIII- -IX- -X- -XI- -XII-
In the Municipal Park: -XIII- -XIV- -XV- -XVI-
Springtime Twilight: -XVII-
The Villa: -XVIII- -XIX- -XX- -XXI- -XXII- -XXIII- -XXIV- -XXV- -XXVI- -XXVII-
Bianka’s Lineage: -XXVIII- -XXIX- -XXX- -XXXI- -XXXII- -XXXIII-
Hiatus: -XXXIV- (XXXV) -XXXVI- -XXXVII-
Finale: -XXXVIII- -XXXIX- -XL-
XXXV
THE DAYS have grown dark, cloudy and grey. A faraway, potential storm lies on the distant horizons by day and by night, not discharging itself in a downpour. At times in the great silence a breath of ozone moves through the steely air, the smell of rain, a moist and fresh breeze.
But then, once more only the gardens fill the air with their enormous sighs, and grow a thousandfold by day and by night, their foliage surpassing itself, working overtime. All the flags hang heavy, darkened, and they helplessly pour the last waves of their hues into the thickened atmosphere. At times, at the opening of a street, someone turns his profile to the sky, bright and cut by the darkness, with a terrified and shining eye — he listens to the roar of the expanses, the electric silence of clouds skimming by, and trembling and pointed, black and white swallows cut the depths of the air like arrows.
Ecuador and Colombia are mobilising. In the menacing silence, ranks of infantry are swarming to the jetty, with white trousers and white, crossed straps on their chests. The Chilean unicorn has reared. He can be seen in the evenings against the background of the sky, an exalted beast, frozen in terror, his hooves in the air.
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