arise from the random condensation of steam, wind and high temperatures. They approach slowly as a mild storm gain strength at will, advance, catch you and when you react, you can only lament the destruction they have caused. By then it will have vanished into thin air. Hurricanes are as terrible as inevitable and, in years like this, are named after women. Each with its letter, Ana A, C for Claudette, the E for Erika.
Hurricane T came by chance, but wasted little time in going from light breeze to a tropical storm. However, its winds blowing transparent, full of nobility and dignity. T because, unlike the rest of weather, he warned. And soon reached Category 1.
forgot to take shelter in a safe place to stockpile food and weather the storm. The forgot or maybe I wanted to ignore. And Hurricane T was gaining strength. Their swirls danced with exquisite sweetness. Gusts, fresh in the heat, warm the cold, were the best place to get involved. And the hurricane was a category T and 2.
A spate of wisdom came upon me in the middle of the storm and decided to run for refuge. Tapié doors and windows, walls and roof blindé sealed my soul in tight. But a whiff of madness seeped through a crack and left unconscious to the storm. T was then a Category 3 hurricane beautiful of those you know will not go twice.
With gusts of over two hundred laughs per hour and gusts of seventy kisses per minute, T began to be felt on foundations and structures. The strength of my frame was beginning to falter and that cyclone, far from losing power, ruthlessly reached the dangerous significance of category 4.
Category 5 is too painful. Hurricane T, a whirlwind of honesty, now up to other regions, leaving behind the consequences of their steps. So tonight, while recall your photo on the nightstand, I do wish that the memory of your brew breeze through the window one day from today is again paved with bricks.
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