There Is A Time For Reciting Poems

Bright Colours In The West, Giant Butterflies Dancing As Night Crept Like A Cripple Toward The East.

I’m Seventeen Years Old, My Name Is Juan García Madero, And I’m In My First Semester Of Law School. I Wanted To Study Literature, Not Law, But My Uncle Insisted, And In The End I Gave In. I’m An Orphan, And Someday I’ll Be A Lawyer. That’s What I Told My Aunt And Uncle, And Then I Shut Myself In My Room And Cried All Night.

But Every Single Damn Thing Matters! Only We Don't Realize. We Just Tell Ourselves That Art Runs On One Track And Life, Our Lives, On Another, And We Don't Realize That's A Lie.

Drink Up, Boys, Drink Up And Don’t Worry, If We Finish This Bottle We’ll Go Down And Buy Another One. Of Course, It Won’t Be The Same As The One We’ve Got Now, But It’ll Still Be Better Than Nothing. Ah, What A Shame They Don’t Make Los Suicidas Mezcal Anymore, What A Shame That Time Pases, Don’t You Think? What A Shame That We Die, And Get Old, And Everything Good Goes Galloping Away From Us.

Probably All Of Us, Writers And Readers Alike, Set Out Into Exile, Or At Least Into A Certain Kind Of Exile, When We Leave Childhood Behind...the Immigrant, The Nomad, The Traveler, The Sleepwalker All Exist, But Not The Exile, Since Every Writer Becomes An Exile Simply By Venturing Into Literature, And Every Reader Becomes An Exile Simply By Opening A Book.