[…] The centuries-old must of the wine, watered down in the cellars.
The strength of his arm and his bronze shadow.
The stained-glass window that recounts his loves and recalls his last battle grows darker each day under the smoke of lamps fueled by foul oil.
Like the wail of a siren announcing a school of scarlet fish to ships is the lament of the one who loved him more than any other,
the one who left her home to sleep against his sword tucked under her pillow and kiss his hard soldier's belly.
Like the sails of a ship swelling or falling, like the dawn dispelling the fog over airfields, like the silent march of a barefoot man in the undergrowth, the news of his death spread,
the pain of his wounds opened in the evening sun, without pestilence, but with all the appearances of spontaneous dissolution.
The whole truth is not in this account. Missing from the words is everything that constituted the drunken cataract of his life, the sonorous procession of the best of his days that motivated the song, his exemplary figure, his sins like so many precious coins, his effective and beautiful weapons.
Excerpt from the poem "The Hussar" published in "The Elements of Disaster," Editions Grasset. A day of tribute to Alvaro Mutis, extraordinary storyteller, great writer, wonderful friend.
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