Non-Fiction

Coronavirus is called Euthanasius

By: Daniel de Culla

They say that Euthanasius,  to whom people  calls Coronavirus, came from China, after gorging on a bat as a first course; second: Pekingese dog, and as a dessert: grasshoppers and crickets, having a vast field in all the Continents where to spread out and peck at humans, especially to old age nursing homes or geriatrics, and battered by other type diseases, from ears to the tail.

          Apparently, everything was at their disposal: their physique and their morale that dragged on the ground, or in wheelchairs, although, some, presented an abundance of straw ideas when they, the old women, put them in a state of overflowing scholarship peneal, or ass, patenting the beautiful qualities, the honors and the glories of the Donkeys so human.

          Recalling, now, the presence of a pretty mine’s sister, Guapalupe, in the nursing home of Villaviciosa de Odón, in Madrid, I could only see her limited to her fallen mouth, drooling, screaming, noisy pain, a crash, the infirmary being very small where it could be expanded; being this spectacle a consideration that would have confused any doctor or health worker in his right mind.

          Here was letting do, letting go, reflecting that some life is better than nothing, without wanting to deprive the elderly of the new diseases they deserve; until Coronavirus, Euthanasius, started the global world trip, back from Marco Polo’s in East Asia.

          Anyway, Guapalupe died at the Rey Juan Carlos de Móstoles’ Hospital, before Eutanasius came to visit her; and, as the female doctor who signed her death told us: “Guapalupe died with a lot of shit.”

          To the disappointment of men, who believe they are superior beings, Euthanasius, or Coronavirus, has now arrived, with the joy of having been able to dedicate to the good Death, called Euthanasia, more than eight hundred verses in any Nation or Continent, like a Jorge Manrique in the universality of his verses in his “Coplas a la Muerte”,  Couplets to Death,  both indicating to us that Life is nothing more than a great Shit punctured on a stick, without forgiving expenses or fatigue, of course, like any other plague, go.

          Let us remember the famous poet from Palencia:

Remember the sleeping soul

Feed the brain and wake up

Watching

How life is spent

How death is coming

So quiet ”.

-And, I say: not so quiet ¡

Categories: Non-Fiction

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