Since birth is a direct cause of death, we live immersed in a permanent contradiction. Pure Life.
As the bolero recites, it is not clear where or how, Alberto Núñez Feijóo invented this weekend what modern people now call a plot twist, that is, a twist of the script: either he is a genius or a daredevil, but Seven days before the elections in Galicia, no one could imagine that the PP would open itself to a pardon, even from Miss Pepis, for Puigdemong (with the final “ng” using Feijóo's pronunciation). It's not just that, Feijóo, continuing with the bolero of nobody knows how or when, admitted that it will be difficult to prove that Puidemong committed a crime of terrorism.
But then, where are all those demonstrations in half of Spain with Bécquer's rhymes in the style of “Puigdemont to prison” confirming that a poem fits in a verse? Or the words of Cayetana Álvarez de Toledo, spokesperson for the PP but a free verse of the right, pushing the masses to the cry of “constitutional Spain is in danger.” All after a 155, more than ten thousand police sleeping in the famous Piolín on September 30, 2017 and two referendums. And, of course, proposing the outlawing of pro-independence parties half an hour ago.
Yesterday Feijóo, in Ferrol, did not say no. He clarified “that now the conditions do not exist.” Curious. The story is not that Junts accepts the pardon of Miss Pepis (asking for forgiveness singing “I will not do it again” like Sandro Giacobbe in The Forbidden Garden), it is that it leaves open a pact with the Catalan independence movement.
What is happening in the PP and in the head of Núñez Feijóo? There are two options. The first is that the pseudo-nationalist who governed with an absolute majority in Galicia is emerging and is cooking up an agreement over low heat for the not distant future. Feijóo leaves the windows open to let the air flow and does not close the doors to agree with Junts.
The second is less poetic and does not fit into a single verse: seeing the tight polls for a week in Galicia, he takes a risk, pulls out the poetry that people gave birth to on the street and recites: “For what I have left in the convent. ..”
And meanwhile, Díaz Ayuso playing the lyre on the balcony in Génova.
