In my room at the Hotel Continental  a thousand miles from nowhere,  I heard  the bulky, beefy breathing of the herds.     Cattle furnished my new clothes:   my coat of limp, chestnut-colored suede,  my sharp shoes  that hurt my toes.      A false fin de siecle decorum   snored over Buenos Aires,  lost in the pampas  and run by the barracks.      Old strong men denied apotheosis,   bankrupt, on horseback, welded to their horses, moved  white marble rearing moon-shaped hooves,  to strike the country down.      Romantic military sculpture   waved sabers over Dickensian architecture,  laconic squads patrolled the blanks  left by the invisible poor.     All day I read about newspaper coup d’états   of the leaden, internecine generals—  lumps of dough on the chessboard—and never saw  their countermarching tanks.     Along the sunlit cypress walks   of the Republican Martyrs’ graveyard,  hundreds of one-room Roman temples  hugged their neo-classical catafalqu...
Una memoria textual