-You don't have faith,” she said.
- Bah! What else does it give! “he replied.
- If you say what you think, leave it. You were a good and pious boy. Do you want me to sing you a childhood song?
- What else does it give! “he replied.
“I always consoles me,” she said.
-Irnelda, you're a saint.
And he looked at her with tired, dull eyes.
Irnelda sang the song, but not reading it from a book, because she had none, but from memory.
- What beautiful words! - he said-. But I couldn't follow them well.
Ramon was old, and Elsa wasn't young either. I was already a grandmother. The little girl played with the other children of Guayabo, and Ramón approached the group. Elsa's granddaughter shouted, pointing out:
- Poor Ramon!
And the other girls did the same.
- Poor Ramon! -they repeated.
A magnificent morning of Pentecost Ramon died. It's been many years since then. The tailor's house is still standing, but no one inhabits it. The wind is still whistling in the old tree; you would say you hear a song; if you don't understand it, go ask the old Irnelda, the one in the asylum.
In the asylum he lives, and sings his pious song, the same song that sang to Ramon. She thinks of him and prays for him to God. I could tell many things about the past tense, memories that mumble in the old tree. End