The sol dorado crowns through the angels’ carriages. It’s 9-5 now over, it retreats for supper as the stretching man rises to clock in. It peers through the white tufts as if waving its last goodbyes, bidding this half of the world adieu, taking its shift on the other side. As the onlookers say goodnight, it says only, ‘hasta mañana mis amigos’.

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