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