These atheist awnings, wet from an insistent rain, brought back the memory of those of Corpus Christi, also wet from another type of water: that of my childhood in Toledo. As if the Brooklyn Bridge were a monstrance of stone, iron and wood, the sun guarded the mystical body of the fog in the ostensorium of the rain.

Through the false Gothic arches the light bent her neck, docile as a virgin, and the autumn air smelled of incense. In the distance, next to the Statue of Liberty, a radiant fish emerged from the water and swam, wounded by the evening hook, like a silver stain. I returned to Toledo for a moment while the noise of the river brought me verses by Garcilaso.

And the night began to oxidize the fragile masonry of the sun.

(From the book ‘Goodbye Toledo’, by Hilario Barrero)