THE LORD OF THE WASTELAND

 

In the retinas of the blackbird was refracted, oblong, the moon. The night escorted him and seemed to make him a reverence. The crow took flight leaving the wire fence behind. He flew over the wasteland. He saw only dust and dry foliage. He saw corpses sprinkling the prairie. The Moon itself denounced the spectacle lighting them up with a feeble beam.

 

He ate, here and there, gray remnants of death. He tasted cheeks, arms, and legs; he made himself the lord of that dessert of ashes.

 

With his hunger satisfied and his gaze into the distance, the crow flew again only to fall afterward. The cause was an impact on his head. He was able to hear some steps and an exciting hoarse voice, almost feverish.

 

It was a boy:

            —It appears we'll finally eat today— said the boy to someone else, and the crow was taken by the legs. The crow became one with the wasteland. Nobody is lord for a long time in the realm of death.