Henrique remembers the harp that enchanted whales.
He searched within the strings the deep voice of life.
The deep violin left him plastered
when it played in shrill, contorted vibratos.
The viola is a woman. Perhaps a woman
from a beach that, at night, sighs for serenades.
Suburban, behind the marketplace, there was
a courtyard, with sad songs wounded by a mandolin.
He liked the mandolin. It almost had the stridency
of the clicking parts of crickets... Their vehemence.
