A Tale of the Dispossessed

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As I believe that writing is to a large extent a collective effort and that each individual voice should find its generational juncture, I have wished this book to be a bridge between my books and those of Alfredo Molano, who is also a Colombian, fiftyish, and witness of the same wars and chronicler of the same struggles. With his permission, I have inserted within my text a dozen lines he has authored, which his readers will surely recognize.

How can I tell him that he is never going to find her, after he has been searching for her all his life?

He told me that he finds pain in the air, that his blood is boiling, and that he is lying on a bed of nails because he lost the woman he loves at one of the turns in the road, and there is no map to tell him where to find her. He searches the whole landscape for her, never allowing himself a moment of respite or of forgiveness, though he doesn’t realize that she is only to be found within himself, ensconced in his feverishness, present in every object he touches, and staring at him through the eyes of anyone who approaches him.

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