Behind the city, among other things,she plants various kinds of oregano leaf,makes bread in a wood oven,rolls cigarettes,boils four eggs and strains twocups of coffee.The trees are grown.The little dog had an accidentbut she's on the mend.Teófilo gave me back Fidelia, she says,I don't know howI'm going to take the goats with me.Cabo Rojo flutters across her eyes.She sees herself crossing the island by footwith her flock.And how's this country treating you?—she looks at me and asks.It's been months since we last saw each other.There is wisdom in willful resignation.In search of simplicity we complicate our lives;as time goes by time doesn't feel the same.Sitting on the balcony floorwith many important things to talk about,just the two of us.On a cloudy summer Thursday afternoon,no more resistance or struggle possible.Sitting on the balcony floorwe watch the bamboo grow.I go on to tell her storiesabout my poor plants.She's still thinking about the future,on the other side of government but on this sideof conspiracy theories,her mode of revolutionis blunt force.Pesticide and hiveare not metaphors in this house.I admit that I cry with angerin the municipal patent office;as much as I'm againstthe Financial Oversight Board,I too can't find my placein the performance of politics.With no time for polite preamblesnor peaceful demonstrations,our work consumes usand the jungle inhabits us.Pulse echoing through hands:it's not the country it's the landit's not the country it's the landit's not the country it's the landit's not the country it'sfriendship.