I give you sparse streets, desperate sunsets, and the moon in the wilderness.
I will give you a sad look at the lonely moon for a long time.
I'll give you my dead ancestor, the ancestor who was commemorated with marble in later generations: my father's father was killed at the border of Buenos Aires, and two bullets went through his chest. When he died, he had a beard and his body was wrapped in cowhide by soldiers; My mother's grandfather-who was only 24 years old at that time-led 300 people to charge in Peru, and now they are all ghosts on horseback.
I give you all the insight in my book and all the masculinity and humor in my life.
I give you the loyalty of someone you never trusted.
I'll give you the core that I'm trying to preserve-the core that doesn't make words and sentences, doesn't trade dreams, and isn't moved by time, joy and adversity.
I will give you the memory of a yellow rose, which you saw one night many years before you were born.
I will explain your life, your own theory, your real and magical existence to you.
I give you my loneliness, my darkness and my inner desire; I tried to impress you with confusion, danger and failure.