Na fila das pedras (ingles vers.)

By Dan Cilva

Devit had been teased a few times that day by a telephone that insisted on ringing and when answering was mute. He had already given up after the fifth call, there was work to be done and he could not delay any more.

They fell from pair to trio, they were thin but rough as the words of Devir. Given this intimate fact, the very young and not-so-ugly man had been relegated to a small house on the outskirts of the city. It was to her liking, the house and the situation. He only saw someone when he needed to go to the market and somebody who was unaware went to his house to order a furniture or arrangement carved in the wood.

Alora, oh fragile Alora! From fragile body to even a breeze the bedding, what really did mess up was his mind, strong and perceptibly deep. As a small-town she was a resident, many people there found Alora strange for having ideas about all things. He liked to spend the days worked to go to the local asylum to visit the elderly and discuss them with respect and wisdom.

Alora, oh fragile Alora!

Joaquim Ciqueira, 80, 79kg, 1,78m ... A small paper attached to the big toe of the body was all the identification that followed him through the corridors of the hospital. He was snorting, he did not want to die even though he had already finished. The cold metal of the table that carried it reflected in sequences between the opaque lights of the corridor until the morgue. If it were Joaquim, I would feel a piece of chicken going into the freezer. But what am I talking about? Dead do not feel!

I feel immensely because of the tragedy. This note followed by a long testimony until. In the opinion of Verner, the door-to-door milk salesman, newspapers serve only vain attempts to wipe off certain physiological havoc and from time to time mark the time.

She smoked on the table in a mug of flandre the warm milk on the cold Thursday morning, so the farm shoes that protected Amanda's cramped feet. The table was plentiful, and even with the poor finish of the house the food there kept everyone well, some more less.

But a guy who slept for a second at the wheel while he was crossing the headlight received the radiator impact of an old but large chevrolet, his documents rolling through the cabin as his body twisted in the middle of the metal, Gaston, 32, not married. She had never married.

The corridor between the benches in the church decorated with all sorts of white flowers with the priest next to the groom and the godparents await the bride, if for a moment she saw his heart, the priest would have eaten much less pig in his life. But no longer matter, five minutes later and were already calling the IML to drag the body, the bodies.

Each lined up drawing more and more dead, on silver tables like a silent and empty orchestra while out there in the cold, the beings weep and thrill with the terrifying silence of life.