A league from Higueras, another from Jaguey, about two from Pucarà, one thousand eight hundred of René Barrientos' men in the manhunt. An "old woman" in the canyon and then, the following day, the leap, the explosion and then, the following day again, in Valle Grande for the end.

The "old woman", perhaps, did not speak, but those oppressed in Bolivia did not see Che alive. Dead, many believed he had always been a bandit.

"It is eleven months today notes Che since the launch of guerrilla warfare, without complications, bucolically, until twelve thirty, when an old woman, taking her goats to graze, entered the canyon where we were camping and needed to be stopped … Inti, Aniceto and Pablito … gave her fifty pesos, and reminded her not to say a word, but it is unlikely she will keep her promise".

His pierced body a morgue trophy for the flashes and mass media. For guerrilla warfare, for armed struggles, and forever a memory heavier than a mountain.
"Rarely in history writes Castro has a figure, a name, an example become so universal in such a short time and with such passionate strength. And this is because Che, in his purest and most objective form, incarnates the internationalist spirit, which characterises today's world and even more so that of tomorrow's".

Mario Monje, head of the Party in Bolivia, Marxist-Leninist and communist. For the revolution with him the circumstances are not right, and Che, a visionary. Monje, incompetent, a charlatan, a clever tactician or simply a communist!
And Che's ideas, kites without wind to break off and disappear?

Che "clearly saw that moral resources were a fundamental lever for building communism in human society".
Without the revolution, drugs and fear. And the communists again, without a revolution, with the opportunism of the reforms.

Posters in their eyes slide rapidly like leaves drenched by the rain. A beret and the face that pushes far stronger than the future.

And the silence of the masses, swollen in the cities' consumerism emanates luxurious vapours to kill the memories. For the heroes, for those who believed and contributed, the sign of the memory of those left, who preserve the memory.
"Let me say - writes Che - at the risk of sounding ridiculous, that a true revolutionary is guided by great sentiments of love. It is impossible to imagine a true revolutionary without this quality".

The ravens have returned, and the eagles will return too. The tanks roar in the silos of the Western fortresses, rotting, nailing down, track on track.

To the East, the wails of the October revolution, liberate turbid embraces on the shelves of socialist bureaucracy; freedom is a slave and the people weep for their tsar with the voice of the gulacs.

The woodworm have gnawed the cane guns of the revolution, but the heart and mind are not yet closed.
A boy and a man with a hundred years open their chest for a new revolt, on the threshold of politics, built for renunciation.

In Europe too.