Felipe wouldn't come today. She felt it in the leaves, in the air. She trusted her intuition, her ability to read what might be in the weight of the atmosphere, the way the flowers moved and the direction of the wind.
Felipe wouldn't come today, and it was better that way, she thought. She was tired.
The stars twinkled in the distance like roguish eyes opening and closing the holes in the universe. "I'm alone," she thought, looking at the immense abyss of darkness. "I'm alone and nobody can tell me for certain if what I am doing is right or wrong." This was the amazing thing about running one's own life, she thought: that chiarascuro substance shifting in time whose individual duration was a chance like everything else.
***
Now she will not leave the earth like flowers that perish without a trace. Omens are hidden in the night, and she moves among them, at last unsheathing her obsidian, her oak. Little remains now of that dormant woman whom the scent of my blossoms wakened from the heavy sleep of indolence. Slowly Lavinia has touched her depths, reaching the place where lie the noble sentiments the gods give to humans before sending them t live on earth and sow corn. My presence has been a knife to carve away indifference. But hidden within her were the sensations which now flourish and that some day will intone chants that will never die.
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