I didn't write their names on the roofbeams because they were famous, but because they were my friends.
Rojas Giménez, the nomad, nocturnal, pierced with the grief of farewells, dead with joy, pigeon breeder, madman of the shadows.
Joaquín Cifruntes, whose verses rolled like stones in the river.
Fredrico, who made me laugh like no one else could and who put us all in mourning for a century.
Paul Éluard, whose forget-me-not color eyes are as sky-blue as always and retain their blue strength beneath the earth.
Miguel Hernándes, whistling to me like a nightingale from the trees on Princesa Street until they caged my nightingale.
Nazim, noisy bard, brave gentleman, friend.
Why did they leave so soon? Their names will not slip down from the rafters. Each one of them was a victory. Together they were the sum of my light. Now, a small anthology of my sorrow.