"Volver,
con la frente marchita,
las nieves del tiempo
platearon mi sien.
Sentir,
que es un soplo la vida,
que veinte años no es nada..."
Carlos Gardel
"The Mute" sings better every day. Yet no-one dances when the Thrush of Buenos Aires calls. He's probably rolling in his grave, his elegance twisted by a feeling of unfairness. Some say it is a sign or respect to not dance to the dead man's baritone, yet is it not sacrilege to let his memory fade in the milongas where he was an accomplished dancer. Let us speak with him then, echo his words with our hearts, their beat reverberating softly between our feet and the earth beneath.
So let him return, his forehead wrinkled, his temples silvered by the snows of time.
And let us feel, for life is but a breath, twenty years a trifle...
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