walked with my father, by the parking lot.
is a sweltering hot day
and heated asphalt
see the shadow of a black bird
flying in circles,
as a satellite of our misfortune.
A crowd victorious behind us,
still rages on the field.
just lost the championship.
The car's cabin is a wood oven;
seats and the sun burning sticks
in glass blinds.
But no matter, as two monks
willing to blow themselves up,
we sit down and turn on the engine:
Fabián Casas and his father
Van car to die.
. 
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