Salvador is at the end of the line. A roman noir, really noir. A brillant Argentinean, poet, ex-terrorist remembers some of his past as he tries to move forward, anguished, borderline. A tortured soul looking for a flower in the desert, writing sonnets in his most lucid moments.
El Drama
At war with the heavens the form's intent.
Upon the dark-lit scene the comet's fall
Etched on the player's masks of mineral,
The chorus murmurs of occult portent.
Beneath flowing costumes the tare latent,
Red satin, purple silk, ethereal
Lures and perfumes, the myth corporeal,
Rites of passage abysmally silent.
Therein the anguish; a single victim
With brazen eyes and twisting hands would dare
The vision of future devastation.
Past wounded lips the rage of breath a whim,
A floral logic, a smothered nightmare,
A slow venom in the varnished fiction.
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