RUSSIA DOES NOT PAY TRAITORS

 

GORBACHEV DIED GORBY AT 91

 

De mortuis nisi bene says the Latin adage. The deceased are said goodbye with good words but it seems to me that Russia does not pay traitors precisely when so many little Russian soldiers are dying for the homeland to defeat the fascist Beast.

One goes step by step through the random days, months, years, weeks and no one remembers you but I remember those tragic Christmases I met at the Bush-Gorbachev summit aboard a ship sailing bowline and in a storm over the Mediterranean Sea.

It was where Gorbi, who once was Boabdil the boy, handed over the Russian spoon to the Americans. I was right next to my radio receiver, I was crying bitterly because soon the shots rang out from Timisoara and poor Ceacescu and his wife were unceremoniously murdered. The CIA gave the order to fire, the gentium haste reigned in Europe and soon hordes of the homeless began to arrive from East to West. It was time for the gong of the Supercofrade, the prince of lies and deceit. The one who wants us all in arambeles, a mob of cretins and ragged people. I started reading Dostoyevsky's “Idiot”. It was like a hammer blow. Many of us in Spain feel bare-assed.

 It was the great capitulation to the dark forces. The catastrophe came: cannon fire in front of the Bieli Dom (parliament), famine, the war in Chechnya, the flight from the Baltic countries. Russia gave up and stopped pulling the trigger, but the Americans kept their fingers on the nuclear button they had already pressed once against Japan.

 Today the West has taken its mourners out for a walk. In Europe the radios crying for Gorby the Jew who betrayed Lenin remind us of the wailing wall. The current of bloody water is a zubia that does not stop. They are tears that ooze in the sewer stream of shit. The artichokes in my orchard dry up. This year we will not have artichokes. The grapes did not ripen, there will be no wine because of the torrid summer of the 22nd; I put a candle to the goddess Hénide, the nymph of the meadows so that she impregnates the clouds with water and quenches the thirst of our drought.

It is my prayer for the rain because my readers already know that I cross myself in the name of the Trinity, but I do not retract the inferior gods (henotheism pure and simple). The cat is already in the bag and the dry straw fills the herpil. No need to rush. They bark then we ride.

The white sand covers the alfaques of Artedo beach. I went down to see sunrise. How great is God! Eternal rest, Gorby. The statesman who with the best will in the world was wrong. He will be buried in Novodievich.

 

August 31, 2022