Kolonelit s’ka kush t’i shkruaje Gabriel Garcia Markez
Excerpt from the book
The colonel opened the coffee box and saw that only one spoon was left. Remove the pot from the heat, pour half of the water on the earthen floor and with a knife dig the box above the pot until it falls and the last coffee particles mixed with rust bark.
While waiting for the coffee to be made, sitting by the baked clay stove, with an innocent waiting attitude and all confidence, the colonel had the impression that poisonous mushrooms and flowers were growing on his stomach. It was October.
A morning from those to whom you can hardly tail, even for a man like the colonel, who had lived who knows how many such mornings. For fifty-six years, since the end of the last civil war, the colonel had done nothing but wait. And one of the few things that came was October.