ENtities. Diego Maenza

by feverish despair, Toad visited countless villages in search of his beloved. There were women, from the most demure house virgins to vulgar prostitutes who, mad with passion for the aura of rarity and extravagance that Toad gave off at each leap, offered to appease his misfortunes, but Toad's heart refused to tarnish the memory of his beloved.

      This is the story of Toad. I loved him, just as dew drops are loved and admired at a serene dawn. Some say that my Toad died wrinkled, dry and dehydrated on a scorching hot afternoon, aching for a romance cut short. Others claim that he entered his small cave and from that day on he did not leave to attempt to catch any insect again. A few say that he sank into the swamp of silence. What everyone assured me though, was that he died reciting a last poem in which he invoked the love of a maiden. I want to think that I was the muse of Toad's poems. Every night I go to the swamps; I like to look out and inhale the foetid and beautiful smell of their water lilies, and let myself be carried away by my personal belief that Toad is that chorus of hypnotic ballads that the amphibians sing in the moonlight. The glare from the stars gives a clarity that brings out the glow of hundreds of eyes as if they were shining stars that unsettle me and at the same time illuminate me.