Ayer por la noche comencé a escribir un nuevo relato sobre un tipo que acude a la Iglesia del Portillo a recitar el poema que lord Byron escribió en honor a Agustina de Aragón. LLeva a su conquistas frente a la tumba de la heroína y con voz caveronsa reproduce las palabras que inmortalizó Byron en 1814, cuando vio a Agustina en Sevilla. Como anticipo podéis leer el poema original: “Childe Harolde’s Pilgrimage’
Yet who shall marvel when you hear her tale?
Oh! Had you known her in her softer hour;
Mark’d her black eye that mocks her coal black veil;
Heard her light lively tones in lady’s bower;
Seen her long looks that foiled the painter power;
Her fairy form, with more than female grace;
Scarce would you deem that Saragossa’s tower;
Beheld her smile in danger’s Gorgon face;
Thins the closed ranks, and leads in glory’s fearful chase.
Her lover sinks- she sheds no ill-timed tear;
Her chief is slain – she fills his fatal post;
Her fellows flee – she checks their vase career;
The foe retied – she heads the sallying host;
Who can appease like her a lover’s ghost?
Who can avenge so well a leaders fall?
What maid retrieve when a man’s flushed hope is lost?
Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul?
Foil’d by a woman’s hand, before a batter’d wall?
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P.D. La incineradora acaba de sacar un nuevo número que disecciona el mundo del cine con un fino bisturí
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