“This is not Las Marismas. No ships no boats no futures sail from here. The winds carry only poison, the slowest, the most patient of their breed. And it is the poison we ourselves harvest by the child’s handful every hour every day. The Jesuits pray.

They pray the death that we reap, by the handful, by the dust clouds the size of that swarm of gnats, and this, this, hombre is how we die.     See this grey dust in this hand? It is the fear, El Miedo.

See this stone from my pocket? It is that which feeds richly the fear, and that which lodged in my father’s lungs.”

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