How To Repair Leather Couch Cushion At Seam

last saw you at the tribute they did to you at this time in the Casa de los Tiros . Were already very old and sick, but weather the storm with indifference kind of person you are and you go about it. While young voices with perfect diction stamped and read your poems, but I liked more when you read haltingly, equivocándote, but giving them the sense and just intonation, the job that you had to write.

Before that, many years ago when you were still young and I almost a child, I have devoted the first book of yours that I read: The sleepless soul. And those poems that spoke of loneliness and heartbreak were echoed in a life qu and almost started and were the harbinger of much loneliness and heartache that came later.

were the 50's, I was 16 or 17, I liked and tried to write poetry since age 15. He had begun reading Bécquer then came Juan Ramón and Lorca, and soon switched to what was published then, but mostly I like to read to you, the "local poets." Went to your concerts and you getting me wet with the spring in the Alhambra . And to all you seemed to me the better. I know your poems by heart, in Bib-Rambla recited "Tilos that are the square and the square enhebráis" ... and when I passed by your house at night on and watch your window I imagined writing those poems that came to me so deep.

All this while I was remembering after the tribute popped your lines under the renaissance coffered Cuadra Dorada. That night I wrote because I had to say all these things before it was later. Your reply came on Christmas , in a letter that was perhaps ú the latest you wrote, and not long after you had told me at the clinic with your sister Asunción. The two together as there was life. And together you went to a few days apart.

Now that autumn is yellow tinting of our city, here I come to remind the poet of the yellows, the poet of autumn, sad Elena, Elena .

fertile Fall

"To be young have been" .
A. Machado

What would you give me, April, if I gave you
this my fall fertile
and mix the joy of your buds
to break without voice, my leaves?

What would you give me, April, if I gave you
the blood of my veins,
and joy, red roses
your scent to smell my sadness?

What would you give me, April, if I gave you
is my anguish of knowing that you exist, and I did not
primavera?

E. Martín Vivaldi