The Russet Bristly Pelt Of A Red Stag Flapping At His Naked Back

 


En la antigua ruta del Yr Hen Ogledd pululan herejes de cinabrio cuya formidable estatura se pone a prueba en las pesquerías del atún y de la parrocha. Bajo la ecuanimidad del atardecer septentrional, nuestro heraldo recién llegado de Sheffield — él, goleador en activo, trovador underground y uno de tantos delfines en bucle— me alarga una jarra de amarga cerveza inglesa, antes de confesar que en 2019 también lloró el nadir de la penúltima saga. Sin osar contradecirle a quemarropa, yo le arengo jurándole que el crepúsculo de los dioses fue a la historia de los arios lo que una gran ópera a una nación de melómanos. Cada obra de arte precisa de un principio, y de un final. De otro modo todo se reduciría al azoramiento de los asuntos prácticos y nos hemos reunido aquí para que me informe de otras chorromocos aún más perentorios.

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