THE STORY OF A HORSE THAT WAS PRETTY GOOD
I met a horse that is fed gardens. We were all very happy with the custom of horse riding and also because they eat garden, when one looked at her eyes things looked in all the colors in the horse's eyes. The horse also liked to look at you with eyes of colors, and best of the matter is, that in the eyes of the horse that ate gardens, were all things that the horse looked, but of course more beautiful, because they looked like if they had seven years. I sometimes hope that the horse was looking for where my school. He understood things and saw that, and then my sister Elba and I went to school through the eyes of the horse.
What so nice horse
to us when more we enjoyed seeing were those Sunday morning they were playing the tattoo and that horse came around colored carpet dressing was happening everywhere.
I think this horse was very affectionate. That horse had a face that would have liked him for a walk in one, but who was going to ride in that town on a horse like that, because the people there he was sorry, there was no apparent clothing.
How nice would that horse with that horse was Miranda who rose against the government because was inspired by the tricolor of his lips and the blonde from her eyes.
That horse did look nice, they were playing there that tattoo and the President of the Society of Gardeners who brought him to breakfast with the public square.
What horse so considerate. That horse could be very hungry, but when brought to gardeners ate the square, he knew that the people had a lot of people in need of everything that was served there, and did not eat but to the musicians. And the musicians, delighted. As the horse was filled with flowers inside, there they were inspired and played the music went inside the horse.
Well, as the horse was fed gardens and had all the colors of the flowers they ate, people passing by and saw him waiting for his food gardeners cast , said, look at me that horse is so beautiful butterflies there being frightened out of the corner.
and the horse knew that said all that, and stayed there very still without moving to also say that the horse was too good to live in a village so ugly, and some doctors who spent what they said is that what seemed the horse is that it was painted in the village.
was so beautiful that horse!
Everyone was very kind to the horse so beautiful, and more ladies and girls of the village, they were very happy with the horse that fed gardens. Do not see that as a result of that power so that the horse threw after the ass were pink?.
So when the ladies wanted to decorate your home or a marriage, had nothing but leave the middle of the street and pick up some of the beautiful roses that the horse returned to the village gardens.
Once in the town was declared World War and a general watching the beautiful gardens ate horse, mounted him and took him to the world war was there, telling : looking horse, forget those gardens and seafood and get the service of such and such, I am going to defend the principles and such, and institutions and so on, and legacy I do not know who, and good horses, all those enemas that you know what you defend.
just got there a world war, another general who also defended the heritage and other things and threw a shot into the general who was on this side of the checkpoint (*), and who killed the horse was fed by gardens, which fell to the ground throwing a lot of birds in the wound because the general had struck to the heart.
The war had finally come to an end because if it had not been to sell to the battlefield.
After the war ended, at that point that the horse fell dead eating gardens, the land was covered with flowers. After coming back around for a village that had no name and was very lonely and had gone to travel the world looking girlfriend because she was quite sad, do not you see even the dog was killed with that of defending the principles and such?, and had found a girlfriend she was very poor and had no grace.
Seeing this mess flower that was there in the field where the horse had died eating gardens, the man took one that was to his liking and put it in the chest.
When he came to town he found his way to a girl who saw him with his flower on the chest, said to herself: how young so delicate that is placed on the chest so that flower nice. There are things that are pretty sad too, as the flower which stood in the chest that young man who comes there. That should be a very decent person and maybe a poet.
What she was saying in it on this matter, the man did not listen with the ear, but as I heard it was with the flower on his chest.
That's not grace anyone can hear things through a flower that has been placed on the chest. The point is that one is a good man and recognize that there are no major differences between a flower placed on the chest of a man and the wounding of innocent dying in the field a poor horse.
should he do, he gave a pretty girl that the only thing he had in his life, gave him the flower the girl she used one to hear things: who with a gift as well not immediately falls for a girl?.
The day we were married, as her father was a man very rich because he had a shave for sale, gave him about 25 old boards, two-wheeled cart and a gold coin .
With twenty-five tables of the flower man was made a cart and he painted a horse cart and the gold coin bought a basket of flowers and gave them to eat the horse painted on the wagon and that was the source of a story that I think I have ever had and began: "I met a horse that fed gardens."
(*) Excise: police checkpoint.
*****
THE CHILD I WAS
THE CHILD I WAS
My childhood was poor, but was never sad was rather calm and thoughtful in many ways was in reality as beautiful as I relive the memory. To populate the fantasy I had the dear friend of my grandmother in Castilian of colorful island of El Hierro, so extraordinary could tell stories like his journey from Tenerife to La Guaira in a sailboat lashed by furious winds of the Atlantic.
She lived with my two uncles who were bakers and had to sleep during the day because they worked at night, so the house was always plunged into a silence of siesta, suitable for My grandmother told in low voice their long histories and also hear old songs from other lands, that she had while stripping his parents, his voice almost whispered. With it I also had my father, who was a simple and poetic temperament, cyclist who loved the Sunday excursions to the countryside to which I always accompanied him.
Some Sundays we would walk to Avila and evening were returning laden with flowers, berries, peaches or plants of anise and rosemary. Sometimes the rides were in the city.
In the morning we would walk to the Plaza Bolivar or to the Mercado de San Jacinto, drank ice cream in "La France''and if we bored the tattoo morning, we climbed the tram Central or Paradise, or we were going to Sabana Grande, which was my favorite ride because the route from Central Station made a fantastic double-decker tram. In the days when I was six years had many English in Caracas, the birthday of King Alfonso XIII was mine, the English put their big red and yellow flags in the windows. My father then took me to walk and told me that the houses were feathering because it was my birthday. By the time I entered the school of Misia Rosa where I learned to read. When I was bigger, I went to school Mr. Paul Meza, who was next to a candy store when they leave school to seek cuts we got into that sweet pastry generously gave us. In that school I made friends with Hector Poleo inseparable and his brother Manuel Antonio. With them and other boys sometimes we retired to the Guaire, in whose waters it was still possible to swim, and whose banks were planted with vegetables by Chinese gardeners who we stole the most spicy radishes or lettuce as those fluffy. At that time I learned the secret life of Caracas, in daring excursions along the creeks and Catuche Caroata, under whose bridges, tunnels and vaulted nearly stabbed entire city, discovering the most mysterious meanderings of privacy. Other evenings after leaving school, I went to the Bakery Solís, where my uncles worked bakers many years where I became a "pet" of the bakers. There I spent hours watching them work on the lathe and the trough, or out of the oven the big strokes "hot bread" falling in a basket, filling the atmosphere of the most noble of all odors. I helped in small ways and browsing in the pastry department, I learned many secrets of the office, and I also often indigestible.
Since the time, when my grandmother and my aunt and uncle lived in a large apartment building inhabited by almost all Arabs, Martinicans and Trinitarians, I attracted foreign languages. I soon made friends with a black candy popular Trinidadian origin who put his basket of candy every day in the 1st corner of partners, and with it in my house without knowing it, I learned my first lessons in English, also rescued by a seller toast he had his car with wings steps of El Calvario, (Dad was stunned with surprise to find an afternoon in the mail talking to some American tourists who had taken me as cicerone. Would I then twelve years.). Still I have some beautiful memories. I remember for example the hazy afternoon when Lindbergh flew over Caracas and how I ventured to come alone to Paradise to see the airplane, it was said, had landed at the Hippodrome.
that was also one of the most bitter evenings of my life, because a police officer following the most long-standing tradition of the Caracas police of all time, climbing to surprise one of the gates Hippodrome to see the airplane, I was arrested and almost dragged me to the Chief of San Juan, where with seven children locked in a room full of junk, I was crying until night, when after lashing the civil own boss with a foetid, let us all. I also remember the events of 1928. I lived then in front of the train station on a street parallel to rails, but at a higher level than the trains could see the top. I have a sister, Justina, who was then a girl flapper fashion in 1928, when the low-waisted, short skirts, and cut hair to Garçonne. That was my sister and also a great dancer in charleston at dances enlivened with player piano or gramophone.
That was the year of the great student uprising. The students were arrested en masse, and for livestock wagons, carriages of those who are homeless, they were sent in bulk to Valencia to then refer them to the castle of Puerto Cabello. When students train stopped at the station in Palo Grande, while the machine is changed, all the girls in our neighborhood would gather on the street where we lived, for from that height entertain students crammed into their cars. I remember my sister Justina throwing candy and flowers, and dedicating them from below the loudest blowing kisses. When the train was leaving, they put a mourn and boys choir singing goodbye to them.
Another attraction of my house at that time was the emergence of radio in Caracas. My father became a fierce radiófilo and was one of the first Caracas to hear American Schenectady station (the first was established in the world) using a crystal set of his own making. The radio passion and generosity of my father that everyone who taught him to ask the simple technique for making a receiver, attracted to our house to many people young and interesting, full of new ideas and knowledge, with I discovered the world of books.
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