Here I am thinking: the day has come when rhythm, after being used for so long in poetry, is no longer beautiful; and beautiful is to make poetry without rhythm. Curiously, I am assaulted by a very funny memory. Once, I went to the border with Paraguay and was there to watch the most renowned “cultural spectacle” in the region. This spectacle was nothing more than an attempt to showcase the musical traditions of the neighboring countries. It was a presentation, although very expensive, roundly ridiculous; but there was one moment that, by its unthinkable grotesqueness, made the ticket price worthwhile. On stage, a guy in Paraguayan-themed robes came up carrying a harp. A harp: the most imposing of musical instruments. There was a silence, or rather, the silence of the very imposing instrument froze the audience. Obviously, they were expecting the man to play the harp. However, after hitting exactly two notes, the man, at the sound of a playback, takes the harp as a lady and begins to dance: he twirls, swings it from side to side, and dares to throw it up in the air. At this moment, the audience was already clapping their hands in excitement. It is true that I could not control my laughter, which was lost between the clapping and the playback. But there was the harp, huge, with its something divine, beautiful as if it were made of gold, whirling in the hands of a clown to the applause of a few dozen imbeciles.