Chronicle of the Rain by Rafael Pérez Estrada

One of her nipples was red, tepid, carnal; the other, blue, looked

made for death's caress. They also brought to mind the luxuri-

ous faucets of a porcelain tub.






There's a story of a woman who was devoured by the moon. It's

said that her cries were made of silver.






Never write the words "tiger" and "dove" in the same line, for

the first may devour the second.






I was fascinated by the cloud the farmer kept anchored to the

door of his shack: "It's very docile," he explained, "and we milk

it three times a week. That's all the land needs."





I knew that he had assassinated the sea, for his hands were

stained blue.





"That swan is a rapist!" the frightened girl shouted at me, point-

ing at the erect neck of a ferocious swan. And I, who through

some strange interference shared her dreams, proposed at that

instant that we exchange nightmares.




The girls came running: "The sea, the sea!" they shouted.

"There's a wave made of gold!"





I asked her to, I asked her like a child asking for the impossible: she

took off her shoes and clothes and walked all night long on the sea.





It was a forest of infinite trees, and each tree had a swing, and

in each swing was a dead child waiting to be resurrected.




A boy whose eyes were darkening asked me, "When I die, will

the sea cease to exist?" I chose not to disillusion him.