They say that memory is a capricious instrument, but there are chords that time does not succeed in defining. Decades ago, in that youth that we remember today with a mixture of tenderness and amazement, I met a man who walked always accompanied by a guitar and a notebook of verses. His voice not only sang; somehow, it deciphered the world for which we were lucky to hear it. Life, with its comings and goings, led us on different paths, until cha…
This story is only covered by news sources that have yet to be evaluated by the independent media monitoring agencies we use to assess the quality and reliability of news outlets on our platform. Learn more here.
They say that memory is a capricious instrument, but there are chords that time does not succeed in defining. Decades ago, in that youth that we remember today with a mixture of tenderness and amazement, I met a man who walked always accompanied by a guitar and a notebook of verses. His voice not only sang; somehow, it deciphered the world for which we were lucky to hear it. Life, with its comings and goings, led us on different paths, until cha…