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Atahualpa the great.
Pity about your insistence on an anachronistic red. There, I might have already ruined this letter, but will try to keep it up through love.
You must know I was very much a fan of yours, before owning your Opera Omnia. Too often it has struck me below the belt, flaccidly, like a stereotypical union complaint repeated too many times. You must know that I do not shy revolution, to the contrary I can storm to it like a medieval knight, if and when necessary (I remember recommending it, irate and incensed, to a peaceful Mexican taxi driver, as recently as 1972). No.
But Art, your Art, was worthy of being always kept by you in the highest regard. And you shouldn’t have -  I think – overworked her, since she was but a child.
But, por suerte, some of the poetical jewels you hid in your locked treasure chest, so very often managed to escape, without leave, and sing glorious and free for the whole duration of one song!
That has indeed remained.
Your hand was warm that night in Milan and I held on to it. Your eyes confirmed you the brother of many Campesinos with whom, in the altiplano huts, I had also shared tea, very sweet but righteous tea, and the amasado bread they’d made, who were similar, standing next to the hot stones of their mud oven, to us when the stilt dwellings were just starting to fade into memories. 

You are there, aren’t you? Please say you are.