The vast and smiling farm that thrives alongside the black and frowning building did not cost one Mealha of public money; not started a lagryma. Not maldicções your fructo: are blessings of living: they will in future blessings of posterity.

The convent-palace, born in the purple robe, happy in his youth and used to pomp long years, is ahi, illustrious beggar, sitting now num as wilderness, where life robust centuries it fadára the founder, if will convert in advance decrepidez. In vain with his great voice of bronze he asks the harbor of injuries of the seasons. The waters of the sky, filtering it through his limbs, there the will slowly desconjuntando the sun you crest the brow and prosper mosses, which arrugam to firm skin, the wind swirls Janellas alert their evil practices, and roaring n’aquellas solitude of his room, throws the faces of the statues, the acanthos of capitals, will face polished marble walls, the dust that took wings in passing through the mountains. In the middle of the world estrepitar nobody listens to the moaning of the stone giant, no one remembers to take the state peculio the smallest sum for him. And why? Because your misery does not speak to the hearts or understandings. Glorious memories? Do not ha there. Utility? What is this immense quarry?