The memory that bursts of the love already is eternal. This way the parson of Sarriŕ preaches it in the Eucharist that he celebrates in the cemetery, surrounded with graves, accompanied of the alive ones and the dead men of the village. Of the village and of all parts, because the memory that bursts forth of the love is not selective, like the "historical memory" of what so much they debate today the newspapers, but it includes everybody. It is the God's memory, where we all are present eternally.
And there we become company. Because there nobody is alone: we are at last a family, the family of the sons of God.
The clouds pass in the sky, in an interlude of the rain of these days, while the chalice is lifted among the graves, in front of the alive ones and the dead men. The dead men who lie and the alive ones who remember them and accompany them; and they are remembered and accompanied by the dead men.
There speaks the priest of the Beatitudes, of the day that all the tears will be wiped.
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