That treacherous month when the earth blossoms while the world quietly unravels. As T. S. Eliot once warned: *“the cruellest month.”* In just twenty days, history has blown its breath violently across the board. Some pawns have fallen. Others have simply vanished.
Donald Trump returns, cloaked in the murky aura of a prophet. This time, he promises not greatness, but revenge. America digs into itself, brandishing tariffs like swords. Globalization — that modern religion — enters a crisis of faith.
Latin America remains silent. Wounded twice: by the loss of its referents and its growing irrelevance. It no longer features in the chorus of voices shaping the century.
And while the Christian world celebrated Resurrection, the Vatican closed a chapter. A long pontificate — at times brilliant, at others, shadowed — fades away. Whispers of an African Pope are no longer fantasy. This is no longer just about religion: it is soul-level geopolitics. Even faith bends to the tilt of the Earth’s axis.
Elsewhere — more subtle, more relentless — China says nothing. It doesn’t threaten. It doesn’t proclaim. It simply invests. With the poise of a patient predator, it breaks foreign capital records in Spain. It doesn’t buy companies; it buys futures. It buys time. And does so with the courtesy of one who needs no justification.
In a quiet corner of old Europe, an Italian coffee pot ceases to whistle. The steam no longer rises like it used to. Bialetti — that symbol of continental routine — has been swallowed by a Chinese fund. This isn’t just a company bought; it’s a postcard of what we once were. While Europe wakes more weary than wise, others have learned to rise earlier.
And in the distance, among long shadows and still-open books, April also takes Mario Vargas Llosa. A voice extinguished — one that could narrate violence without ever losing beauty. With him, a mirror fades. There’s no one left to translate the soul when reality turns monstrous.
Because that is what we are living. Not a change. Not a transition. But a mutation.
There’s no longer a need for declared wars. Power no longer marches to the rhythm of anthems. Today, it infiltrates. In algorithms, in cables, in opaque contracts. In a dependency disguised as efficiency.
This April has felt too real. Too long. Too full.
Coincidence? Conspiracy? Hollywood has already taken note. Somewhere, a screenwriter is typing *based on true events* — the trailer we’ll watch in five or six years. History, as we know, repeats itself. First as tragedy. Then as teaser.
As the always-astute Vargas Llosa proclaimed:
“When reality becomes unbearable, fiction is a refuge. A refuge for the sad, the nostalgic, and the dreamers.”
And you,
where are you on the board?
Are you placing pieces, or just watching them fall?
