It wasn't because of the wine we made at home (terrible).
Not even to help my father (damn the urge to bend down).
Not because we considered that that work contributed to give us character (the idea of mother).
If every year we were looking forward to the harvest even when we were older, it was by
exploding the bunches on the heads of the cousins.
That crazy adventure that was to tread with
bare feet
, to celebrate that
mochufas
did not yet exist
(Santiago Lorenzo), get to that park
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