La Argentina's hands flutter to her heart, and her head, resplendent in carmine curls, tilts to the right.
'Pugliese,' she says and moves her head as though she is nestling in the composer's arms, 'when I hear him, it is my heart I hear. When I dance, he fills me. I lose myself when I hear his music.' Her fingers, clenched, unfurl like the petals of a flower, giving the music that she feels to all of us.
The Farol, the streetlight in the slums, is our illumination.
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