For half a century I was one of those guys who want to write but have nothing to say. No subject or character came to my aid to get me out of the marasmus in which the profession of journalist becomes after several lustrums of blotting pages in a vain attempt to organize the chaos of the day to day. But suddenly one afternoon, when I got off a horse that had given me a few hours of happiness, I patted him on the neck and promised him that if he ever wrote literature, his fellow creatures would be protagonists of the first order.

Almost at the same time, in reflecting on the violent reality of Colombia, I thought that an elegant way of explaining it would have to be to offer the reader a journey into the past, making him see that murderous ignorance and blind intolerance are not phenomena of the 20th century And XXI, but have been in the national genetic memory for centuries.

I also read about a squad of rebellious cavalry who, after the wars of independence, wandered through South America by renting their spears to the highest bidder. I scanned here and there in search of more clues of such a singular history, but in the midst of the resulting avalanche of photocopies and contradictory versions, the one that jumped was the figure of Juan José Rondón, an officer of the revolutionary cavalry of Simón Bolívar, a A man with a full heart who today, two centuries later, wears the most precious trophy that the warrior of generous soul can receive: eternal oblivion.
Rafael Baena