That day was windy, a big man wind, wet, violent, it often causes them to delay flights between Orta and Flores and shakes the boat Basque Pneumatic when loaded again and she hopes garopa on the cliff with binoculars, that makes us close our eyes because it guesses within her sizzling ground cavalry. The three men, however, not close their eyes. Their eyes undaunted resist the onslaught of the elements and history and if not for the greasy bangs the third, the shortest, would know nothing what happens. The three men decided to kill hundreds of thousands of troops to protect the safety of many others. Not exactly. The three strong men decide to kill hundreds of thousands of men to see what happens, just do a little reluctantly, I suspect, like the boy who sort their toys to quiet criticisms of utilitarianism stupid parents. The three big men decide that hundreds of thousands of men must shed their blood with abosorto fury with which the child puts toys in the wicker basket that will soon give the five, soon will give five and Dad return from his walk and maybe a snack, and then maybe Nutella TV, pictures, and then, well, then that matters, then everything will be fine and the couch is so warm and yes, the boy, good boy, is about to finish stretching the sheets with her hands clumsy fingers and fans as a missile falls into the green line center Baghdad's telecommunications. The three men are furious love. The three men asked white wine.
That photo and the wind long ago. The wind is devouring the coast of the Azores islands and hundreds of thousands continue to die, but the three men left their palaces, leaving empty rooms, desks abandoned, melancholy tapestries, moon slices, cards, socks, cries. Two have already apologized. The Englishman and the American attended to its people and against the wind and repented, painfully, honestly. The two good men, most Christian, became an act of contrition and hung from the balcony of linen sheets stained with the blood of his lies and his crimes. The two men, strangely, were spared. O no, it does not matter. The two good men were at peace with itself and I could afford the luxury of huge public and die to return to the carpenter's father to learn the art of the crosses and doves.
But what about the third man? The third most Christian man apologized. He left the palace with the gesture irritated, stiff shoulders, intestines in a package solid, fingers clenched. Upon his departure, the multitude of torches that surrounded his dream for days quietly broke the passage of Moses. An insult thin out their ranks, some wanted to hand fly the gallows or send the stone. Everything froze overnight. The Christian man, the third, the short, won out steadily and was lost in March looking leaves his carriage.
The third man is also good. The third is compassionate and knows well the advisability of contrition and rites. There is vanity, therefore preventing it from asking for forgiveness before he died. It's another thing. Immortality is assured.
