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 distant, potential storm lies on the distant horizons by day and by night, never discharging itself in a downpour. At times in the great silence, a breath of ozone moves through the steely air, the smell of rain and a moist, fresh breeze.
But then, once more, only the gardens swell the air with their enormous sighs, growing a thousandfold by day and by night, their foliage working overtime, surpassing itself. All the flags hang heavy and dark, helplessly pouring the last few waves of their hues into the thickened atmosphere. At times, at the opening of some street, someone turns his profile — illuminted and incised by darkness, with a terrified, shining eye — to the sky. He listens to the roar of the expanses, the electric silence of clouds skimming by, and black and white, trembling and pointed swallows cut like arrows the depths of the air.
Ecuador and Colombia are mobilising. In the menacing silence, ranks of infantry are swarming to the jetty, wearing white trousers and with white, crossed straps on their chests. The Chilean unicorn has reared. He can be seen in the evenings against the backdrop of the sky, an exalted beast, frozen in terror, its hooves in the air.
> -XXXVI- >