The flower of the Arbutus on the old bark of the Riachuelo River, white circles of silk madronos evoked the purity times; below, the spring grumbled complaining about the ensemillada faragua and was as penetrating to an infer loneliness and endless steam. They were in short they supply already to the doves and the snakes wanted to crawl on the retostado soil of clay and gravel, which is cuarteaba day after day, relieving the screams of the dryness of the subsoil. That great purity, evil in power, tornabase already in mourning of angelic, and summer wind argued with the tops of the trees, which were husks and shells music old music and unknown, music of time lost in our memories, gloomy music with aromas of Strawberry tree flower, white butterflies that pretended the permanence, flowers that perfumed kilometers and kilometers of those old bedsheets uneven and full of Pigweed and nettle. We talked about el Madrono on snails that flower coleccionabamos; We had a campfire and returned to the town drunk by the scent of the flower of el Madrono and mind focused on white mats that ancient branches of that tree of del monte. And summer wind continued bickering with the tops of these trees, which were husks and shells musical, white butterflies old music and unknown, music of time found in our memories, exotic music with aromas of flower of Arbutus, white butterflies that pretended the permanence, flowers that perfumed kilometers and kilometers of those old bedsheets uneven and full of love and life. Rene De Leon g. on November 24, 1978, original author and source of the article.