wonderfully one morning last autumn. Especially for May. We walk, Alfredo, Isabel and I, along an avenue of Pamplona. People, timid in the fresh and the crisis, looks to the shops, without deciding to enter. In the porch of the headquarters of the Fund, a bearded, stooped, tired, just stop with a child stroller like mine. Her face painters punished some attributed to the apostles, although at times lead many only see, if you look at a beggar. The bearded man wearing a bizarre indumentum. A blanket as a skirt pictures, among other details, he destined to be the subject of jokes of the wicked. Not ours.
The bearded man takes a hen in her stroller.
A Chicken.
A red hen. Viva. Such as poultry houses of the people.
and the little bearded man perceives our astonished eyes, and smiles. I also smile. We're not that far from each other because we, both all our lives in a stroller.
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