MEMORY AND RENCOR "QUOMODO FACTA EST MERETRIX CIVITAS FIDELIS"

There are those who boast of having memory. What you have, man, is a lot of rancor and bad blood. They spend their lives editorializing and speculating. They do control history but in it they narrate partialities because history is written by the survivors, this is by the victors, and at the end the coffin with three cavities awaits them: Porphyry, lead and cinz. These boxes will slow down the decomposition of the gunk but will ultimately defeat the worms. These considerations lead me to leave the Internet blog that I had been filling out since 2007, I was proud of this handbook that has made me a passionate writer. One of the pipis said sarcastically at the meal we celebrated: "and he has a blog." It was Remondo. Remondo died. The one with the jacket and all that gang of sparklers who continue are letting go of their hair from the seminary pasture stay for me. They love me little. I have told Medel the butcher that I am not coming back. They are all learned children of the Fury, which reigns among us. What became of that fervor, of that our innocence of misacantanos. Rancor is a dangerous deity in this Spain 2020 year of the great plague that a revolution has brought us. They all go into the dark room of Cava Florinda to mourn the loss of Spain with Don Rodrigo. We were deceived and poisoned by the lying media. I look out at the heart of sorrows and my soul melts into tears. I won't go back to the club anymore. They torture us with nets and cocks as in the Circus Maximus and it is like falling into the nets of the vicious circle. They whip us and break our ribs on the rack, pour boiling lead over our heads and we still resist even if this is only a saying to get out of the way. Because now I don't see witnesses of the faith anywhere. martyrs of Truth after all. They all wrinkle; Pancho Bergoglio joined his faction and the flock is terrified of being a sheep without a shepherd. The defeated counterparts return rump. Babieca, El Cid's horse, broke a leg and neighs invective. You were going for priests, you hung up the cassock. Without knowing what to say or what to do, let us invoke Saint Timorus. We see the wild boar of San Antolín and the wolf of San Froilán that brought the books to the chair or the fish of San Atilano that spat the solid gold pastoral ring that had fallen into the Duero. Miraculously a fisherman found it in the mouth of a catfish. After many years he was found by a sacristan from Zamora. Beautiful apocryphal stories that are no longer worth anything. The antichrist is in the ajarafe, a dominating eye, dressed in scarlet and a signal like a violinist on the roof dominating the upper part of the house and making signs for the occupiers to enter, so let us sing with the psalmist the misfortunes of the Holy City that was pissed off. " Quomodo facta est meretrix civitas fidelis? " The city of God became a whore. Jerusalem, Jerusalem that kills your prophets! The chosen people have become murderous. We have become orphans and a ward and all argue us in error and we are to swallow the labral grapes of all the hawthorn. And the dirt on the vine is dry and the branches died with the early morning rime. Are there redrojos? Nobody conhorts us, nor comforts us, the common people despise us. We saw chimeras burning in the great beacon of disappointment