His poetry, born to the love of the fire of the taverns and united to that very personal, hurtful and deslenguada verbigracia, could make of François Villon in France, that twin saint'; of which here in Spain we knew with the name of Francisco de Quevedo y Villegas, but to which we could very well apply, also, the epithet that Antonio Machado dedicated to his famous Andalusian knight, named Don Guido, who was referred to as that thunder dressed as Nazarene', although, it is recognized much more to our dilettante lenguaraz, dressed as knight of the Order of Santiago whose motto will remember that it was and closes Spain'.

Nevermore -with the permission of Mr. Barry and leaving aside that world where Peter Pan with his happy thoughts and Captain Garfio with his misunderstood sadness, represented as the fight of Light' of the Grail sagas, between Parzival and Feirefiz or the love-hate between two people destined finally to recognize, reconcile and love each other- could be the ideal metaphor, of the place where to go to look for those snows of yesteryear', whose memory of nostalgia and impotence the tormented heart of the French libertine poet, who drowned his melancholy between tavern skirts, ergot-stained bread and pitchers of a wine of which his congenere - also called François, but with the surname Rabelais - would say that it does not make good Latin'.

Better than wondering, therefore, where are the snows of old, drowning the eyelashes in the tears of a mermaid, believe me, it can be gratifying -even to quench the infinite thirst of that barren field in which memory becomes when oblivion obstinates in knocking on the door- to take a stroll through that old Madrid -more than the Austrias or the Bourbons, of the madrileño born cat', of firm skin as the atochar, like his Black Virgin - and to let itself be seduced by that past time, that if perhaps it was not better, neither, I assure you, it was definitely worse and to stop a few minutes to contemplate what well could be defined as the taverns of Nuncajamás'.

It is true that they preserve the façade, but it is also true that there is no longer a trace of that bohemian and liberal atmosphere where, for example, Mariano José de Larra wrote his articles, while his eyes lacrimated amber tears of absinthe; nor share the scenes where Pedro Antonio de Alarcón placed the glorious baseness of his hat of three peaks or listen to the murmurs of Mr. Baroja -our severe, very severe Don Pío- rereading the chapters of his joyful nights of Buen Retiro.

Not even those tanned effluvia of aromatic aroma and traces of carioca trace, of imported cigars, like rum, of that pearl of forbidden love, which was our beloved Cuba, remain in the air -as they say they once are eternalized-, just as it is not known what happened to the bartender to whom the group Mocedades sang. Although, in honor of the truth, the chords of an old accordion are sometimes heard, with which a keruacano' street musician, with or without a guide dog but with the iris of his lost eyes in an unreachable star, surprises us with the notes, loaded with melancholic parsimony, that possibly a Galician in love dedicated to his white dove, that other siren of the Caribbean, named Guantanamera.

In short: perhaps Nevermore was also the place where François Villon went, not only to dream of the snows of yesteryear, but also where he sighed for the tavern of lost illusions.

Not even those tanned effluvia of aromatic aroma and traces of carioca trace, of imported cigars, like rum, of that pearl of forbidden love, which was our beloved Cuba, remain in the air -as they say they once are eternalized-, just as it is not known what happened to the bartender to whom the group Mocedades sang. Although, in honor of the truth, the chords of an old accordion are sometimes heard, with which a keruacano' street musician, with or without a guide dog but with the iris of his lost eyes in an unreachable star, surprises us with the notes, loaded with melancholic parsimony, that possibly a Galician in love dedicated to his white dove, that other siren of the Caribbean, named Guantanamera.

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