Se para frente a un quiosco Lo distrae un titular
Y sigue, como siempre, como todo en la ciudad

No me hablen más de él
No me hablen más por él
Que yo lo veo en cada esquina
Y lo escucho en el café

En medio del discurso corre
Bruscamente el dial
El sabe que a ese hombre
Nunca lo verá en su hogar
Ni el vino ni la mesa
Junto a él compartirá

El hombre de la calle
Sigue yendo a trabajar
Porfiado, de sombrero
Más allá de un temporal

A veces compra un diario
Se lo lleva para hojear
Las fotos del partido
En la página de atrás

No me hablen más de él
No me hablen más por él
Que yo lo veo en cada esquina
Y lo escucho en el café

[Diarios de motocicleta]

What we had in common - our restlessness, our impassioned spirits, and a love for the open road.

Many will call me an adventurer - and that I am, only one of a different sort: one of those who risks his skin to prove his platitudes

The revolution is not an apple that falls when it is ripe. You have to make it fall!

All of them, all those who can’t adapt – you and I, for instance – will die cursing the power which they helped bring about with often enormous sacrifices. Revolution is impersonal, so it will take their lives and even use their memory as an example or as an instrument to control the young people coming after them…you will die with your fist clenched and your jaw tense, the perfect manifestation of hatred and struggle, because you aren’t a symbol (some inanimate example), you are an authentic member of the society to be destroyed; the spirit of the beehive speaks through your mouth and moves through your actions. You are as useful as I am, but you don’t realize how useful your contribution is to the society that sacrifices you.

This isn’t a tale of heroics, nor is it merely some kind of ‘cynical account’; it isn’t meant to be, at least. It’s a chunk of two lives running parallel for a while, with common aspirations and similar dreams.

Ernesto.