Not even the rain

Dos horas antes de que se case Ana, en la habitación 206 del Riverbank hotel, con un poema de e.e. cummings en la cabeza.

"somewhere I have never travelled, gladly beyond

any experience, your eyes have their silence:

in your most fragil gesture are things which enclose me,

or which I cannot touch because they're too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me

though I have closed myself as fingers,

you openalways petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touvhing skillfully, misteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, I and

my life will shut very baeutifully, suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which are to perceive in this world ecquals

the power of your intense fragility: whose texture

compels me with the colour of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

(I do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens; only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands."

Y ahora sí, ahora a la ducha, para que no nos pase como en "Cuatro bodas y un funeral".