Out there,
in the shitiest bar ever,
from the highest city,
in a certain country,
the coldest place ever,
he drinks the alcohol
as a meditation, lost in thought,
with the warmest heart,
ever,
and those he drinks
never suspect.
Never.
He doesn't drink 'to be drunk' or to
forget himself or someone,
he drinks to...
how could I...
make you understand?
something keen?
in deadly days
and starless nights
this could mean mockering
and some kind of isolation...
isolation seems to be
the hidden answer...
behind the alcohol.
He tastes the alcohol,
and he feels
he is far to 'see' ...
the answer in the liquid,
the sacred labyrinth of fate,
the days lead a chance,
and the chance
is a forbidden dance for him.
He knows that the bars,
pubs or carpas(*) are only weapons of war.
One more drink,
and the answer comes from within,
saying...
softly whispering...ENOUGH !
enough my friend we gotta leave...this noisy stillness state.
(*) The 'carpa' a methapor of a bar and it's forms, according to Virginia Ayllon, (the prologuist and close friend of Victor Hugo Viscarra) the poor bars in Bolivia, usually in the slum areas, there are also some kind of bars build with big nylons like small bars in every party of neighborhoods in which some poor people, enjoy and have fun.
