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"Ante el amor que no pudo ser"


Printed on seasoned linen

44" x 66"

A few days later, the roots of invisible trees rose from the grave, and from the moist earth, a tower of dust began to rise. It was then that the gravedigger understood what the old woman had told him. Despite having hidden the body himself, ensuring to dig deep and conceal it where no one could reach it, where no one could cry for it, talk to it, plead for it, or demand its return. Despite being paid very well and having walked everywhere to find a barren, unmarked spot, a hole for which no one could trace a path, an open mouth to swallow it and never allow it to return. Despite all his precautions, the knife and gag, the shovel, rope, and silence: nothing would change. The old woman had told him before he, in the middle of the night, dragged the bound body to leave it in the vastness of the earth in a hole pooled in shadow without trees, stones, mountains, rivers, or anything: burying the corpse will not change things, because killing is not destroying; and because the problem with allowing the dead to return once is that nothing dies twice.

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