All we knew that you were bad, that you were bottled in a fight that you in spite of the circumstances always defined with irony:

“And it is that the thing no longer depends my. It depends on mé dicos, “ruscas” and demés tiny beasts that empecinaron themselves in nesting in my body. Shortly I must myself put under another operation because my céncer one was like Bush, pertinaz and intransigente. And to me it continues declaring the war like which, to his to seem, I am… a terrorist and must annihilate to me” (June of 2008)

Fireproof fighter, belonged to those “red ones” that never they throw the towel, to those people who are, solidarity and commitment during three hundred sixty and five days to the year, citizen of the full world of internationalism.

Republican of Getafe, that change of airs course to the Canary Islands from where we received their loaded collaborations of island feeling, from where wisely it knew to see that Canary it is an independent town, although do not recognize it:

“Canary it limits the North with water; to the East with water; to the South with water and the West with month water.
Spain limits the North with fishing, agriculture, cattle ranch and industries; to the East with month Terras fishes, “Mythical” and islands “Re-you will beat wings”; to the South with the Moroccan and Saharan fishing banks and macro-gangster tourism; to the West with caciques, landowners and plans of rural use” (February of 2008)

Their notes were published in different Web, where their collaborations became periodic, happening to be patrimony of the alternative “average” calls.

Tambié n followed with its collaborations in one canary communitarian radio: Guiniguada radio in that he had to let participate with his anélisis of the social reality, because his great personal enemy was winning him the battle, céncer devoured the language to him, for Agustín the microphone had finished.

But their notes to us continued arriving, as a shout of freedom and fight by a life to which it clung plenty of love and ideas:

“, Nobody, Never said that despué s of 100 years of conquest, of the 70.000.000 of natives who only existed was left little 3.500.000. Nobody spoke of the natives who were put under the enslaved work, of the destruction of their culture and beliefs nor of the hundreds of thousands of died by infectious diseases that did not know” (12 of October of 2008, last article)

Ideas, that was your great packing, to have them and to defend them, not to resign, to continue, to follow, to fight.
You returned to east Madrid Friday, pensébamos verte Sunday or Monday, we knew that venias to do sprint in that battle that you freed within your body.

Now we say you good bye and continues being jodidamente jodido, knowledge that no longer I will have encounter, that there will be no plética and that that “kills” that we had to Mónica, we will not be able to share it.

Often we spoke of that attempt to construct the beach of our dreamed revolution, with those small fine sand grains, that are each article, each denunciation, each fight. In a part of that beach already these you for always, we will continue sending grain to grain our utopia of revolution, of that other world who we know that this here. ¡ Blessed utopias! companion of the soul… Agustín companion.

¡ Health and Republic!

LQSomos. Writing. 27 of November of 2008
www.loquesomos.org

Dé Janos here your opinion
 http://libros.miarroba.com/leer.php?id=224744

P.D. Of Mónica Oporto
Man.
For Agustín Mora Valle.

Story you fought against that puto to céncer.

That same one to that many “gorilas” live when it silences to which they fight.
And that you did not become fécil because you did not lower the guard.
Those who we knew you is born a deep pain to us because he was to us a LOQUESOMOS companion with who we shared ideals and fights.
Nevertheless you left a fight example us: it did not silence to you, less you maniató your ailment. And you followed with your notes in this space of freedom.
That where esté s florecerén music, poetry, passion by justice, freedom.
It receives, of this “guapetona” - as you were accustomed to llamarme- something that so many times we shared, and that I dedicate to you because it portrays to you.
¡ Until always Friend!

Of quererte to sing I undergo disnea
enough month allé of the lungs.
Your shade shines today in the fight
greater of the conscience and the reasons.
By you chest song,
as the dream in which turn
and it weighs, like still breathing.
By you advance stretch
to which lack in tone
and song which I do not pardon.

Man, man and friend,
still it is to be with you.
Man, man without temple
your example descends to my city.

You knew to ride against who hates
from its tower of hatred and extermination,
but, in my to seem, gave to month glory you
the soul that you carved to your dominion.
The little medicine,
the insufficient month
she is the one to remedy the mind.
And madness happens
smiling when it deceives,
as hatred of the own heart.

Man without last name,
a little mercy I request to you:
man, ay, still,
that somewhat month allé is the day.
Of the melena inculta to the baldness,
of the initial number to the countless thing,
from the tomb to the surface,
after brief twenty so multipliable
a winged song arrives to me
of fevers of the childhood,
it brings forth the invention to me of the anxiety
and mutilated whole number and,
furiously to kisses,
I give to my heart travieso you:

Man, man without death,
the night breathed your luck,
man of good destiny,
and there are lights put in way.

Man. Of Silvio Rodriguez.