Hombre sin patria

A nameless exile drifts through the cracked heartlands of a post-revolutionary republic, his silhouette stitched against dusk like a torn flag. Once a poet of the patria, he returns to find every street corner speaking a dialect of betrayal: the cathedral bells toll in foreign accents, the plaza trees wear nooses for leaves, and the river carries coffins the color of official stamps. He seeks the daughter he last lifted onto a horse’s mane—now a cabaret marionette who auctions her pulse to officers with medals hot from the mint. Between them unspools a map of absences: a vanished wife buried under a bureaucratic typo, a brother shot by the very platoon he once fed, a nation rewritten in erasures. The camera stalks the vagabond through marketplaces of contraband memories, where old photographs are sold by weight and every vendor has the same scar under the left eye. In cantinas smelling of kerosene verses, he barters his final sonnet for a bullet, then walks the night with that live round in his pocket like a second heart. When dawn ignites the zócalo, he stands beneath the marble balcony where once he swore allegiance to an ideal, and confronts the uniformed ghost who signed the order that exiled him. Their dialogue is a duel of silences; the only blood spilled is the red echo that drips from the town clock. In the closing iris, the daughter—her stage name a palindrome of his surname—boards a northbound train, clutching a valise lined with pages torn from his unpublished book. As steam erases the platform, the man’s shadow remains, burnt into the adobe wall like a fresco no regime can whitewash.