Mary Faris. Better crane (№ 290207)

Ramon left. Long the clock ran, the fat crept behind it, and officials clapped folders: I didn't know how to lure a stubborn old man. One morning we saw from the height of our San Luis becomes the bottom. Rose water. "What's up with Ramon?" - we asked from chickenshit people in ties and jackets. Those waved: "Yes, he died. Live in peace already." But still we have not lived: on the submerged Church still the bells rang. Now not only to the service, and at night.