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me condemn it is irremediable it is only the justice with the capital punishment, the immortality does not exist for the man, only I find my freedom when at three after 3 in the afternoons, the belfry sounds imagine that it is close, but his soft sound reminds to me my moment of freedom, I imagine when it was walking freely along the street, deprived by my sin on having killed for crumbs. When we return to the life after a long sleep I continue in my prison and to see the number of my cell 47 remembering my spiritual and mental existence, it seems macabre and dark in only thinking to liberate my soul of carnal body, where the justice does not have any border to catch me.
In my last wish I will ask for several sheets and pencil, will try to do the impossible thing of me shelter in the writing as it was done by Miguel of cervantes, sheltered in his fantastic world, that no state or kingdom that disturbs it for an act of the will, that memorable days of the past. My sentence was already pronounced by the judge marked by a sharp voice saying guiltily, directly to the judgment of death, I want to buy him to the life only a day of happiness, which will not be already, my will was fulfilled, they delivered to me cuatros sheets and a pencil.
is this lines I write them with my own blood, although I should kill myself the anxiety, it is not my legacy but my memory, so that my soul remains marked in this one sheets of my short life as symbol, where the justice cannot stop me, so that it is wanted so much in this life, if to want or not to want is not equal, since the love is a falsity it is to cry and to seem you're welcome serves to be delivered by madness if it is a torture, the suffering and treachery fills my heart.
After stopping writing my memoirs full of blood and tear, the sound gained again my spirit, the table began to tremble like a message everything was confused, again the sound and the movement a sensation of pins and needles in all my body, which is paralyzed in a horrifying fright, I try to move up to obtaining it, but it is useless it was longing to open the eyes, but I was not daring, only a deep sleep invades me. Step like that our prisoner was quiet in a deep sleep, which never woke up, fulfilled with his assignment the justice could not reach it, the three of the evening the bell-founder sounded in the day, saying 47 liberates her of the prisoner of the cell, two came guard and a father to give him the blessing to his game, but when they came found the body on the table without life, to the do of his left hand his memory written with blood was, where his mutilated fingers are demonstrated squeezed to extract the macabre ink, the father read the last page in the end he says, already in my last lines I leave my soul in my written memory, which was liberated by the person who reads it to the moment of my death, the father crosses himself on behalf of god and asks the guard to extract the body of of the enclosure.
From this moment there have spent many years of this event of the cell 47, in several opportunities one usually sees a prisoner writing, but this cell takes years closed and any prisoner does not assign him since then, giving to demonstrate that the soul of the mysterious prisoner continues in the enclosure, more when three of the evening dreams the bell wing.
