Daniel de Culla (1955) is a writer, poet, and photographer. He is also a member of the Spanish Writers Association, Earthly Writers International Caucus, Poets of the World, and others. Director of Gallo Tricolor Review, and Robespierre Review. He has participated in Festivals of Poetry, and Theater in Madrid, Burgos, Berlin, Minden, Hannover and Genève .He has exposed in many galleries from Madrid, Burgos, London, and Amsterdam. He is moving between North Hollywood, Madrid and Burgos, Spain. His address is in Burgos, just now. He has more than 70 published books.
THE ROGUE CROW AND THE LIVING SKULLS
Smiling skulls, and not so smiling, I saw the rogue Crow, just like me, on the wall of the balcony of a terrace at the CAB Museum, making out Calle Fernán González, in Burgos, where masks came and went as undead , euphoric, singing and dancing the funny Death, not knowing how much is funny, except for that clerical gossip for slime idiots that announces this: "Death is the source of life and hope." Halloween or Day of the Dead smells of rouge, paints, artificial blood, highlighting the colors red and black; and flowers, many flowers, with the smell of a cemetery. Skulls and skeletons of all sizes, shapes and colors, remember their dead, without sadness or longing, because they are well where they are; but, knowing that, in the desert of this life; today with the plague of the Coronavirus, death is the way of peace. For this reason, in Spain, as in all the countries of the Globe, there are armies that boast in calling themselves: "Bride and Groom of Death." Once sitting in front of the spiers of the Cathedral, and leaning on a table, I began to draw a postcard for my dream girl, pilgrim of the World with me, who offered me her friendship and, on the paths of Love, always gave me her delicacy without question. Behind the wall, on the ground floor of the Museum, there is an orchard with a fig tree, which is a heavenly Easter fig tree, since it produces figs shaped like glans and nipples, a real delicacy. I have finished the drawing. I have turned the postcard over, to put the address of my girl, who is doing an "Erasmus" in Hannover, Germany, where she has gone to learn German. Right after the postcard was finished and left on the table, I got up to go to the wall and look at the fig tree again. Being in this uncomfortable posture, the rogue crow, runing me over timet, went to the table and took the postcard, flying to the roof of a house opposite, without releasing the postcard from its beak. I wanted to show it my bad mood, insulting it; but no I didn't. Since I read the Edgar Allan Poe’s "The Crow.” I have always admired this bird and more, since I was at the Segovia Council Seminary, always dressed in black cassocks, and where the Segovians called us "crows" or "rooks." I let it go with my postcard; well, I couldn't do anything else, because I couldn't reach him; and to console myself, I thought that this rogue crow, by a miracle, would go to where my girl is, in Hannover, and drop the postcard at home. -O good Crow, I shouted firmly while flying, that for my sake you give this postcard to my girl, that I don't want to do so many straws by myself. I appeal to your kindness