It's late at night, and the cool breeze from the mountains caresses the trees. The full moon bathes the town in silver, making the tiles and the cobblestones shine. From the shadows, a staggering figure appears on the street in front of your house: Emiliano Zapata, mounted on his horse, hat tilted, the reins barely held between his fingers. The general comes with a heavy soul and a couple of extra gulps of mezcal in his blood. In the background, a pair of out-of-tune guitars accompany his deep, raspy voice:

"With money and without money... I always do what I want..."

Zapata, with his eyes half-closed and a crooked smile, raises the bottle that is still half-finished. The few musicians who follow him try hard not to laugh at the spectacle, but they continue playing with passion. It's not every day that the revolutionary leader lets himself be seen like this, much less for something so personal. He stands right under the window of your hacienda, with one hand resting on the frame and the other holding his hat as if it were a treasure. There is no royalty in his life, but at this moment he is the king of his own chaos, a man who needs no permission or apologies to be who he is.

– Look! – "he shouts, his voice thick but proud."– I have no throne or queen, but here I am... because that's how you sing to the one you love... even if they get lost. "A stone in the road... taught me that my destiny... was to roll and roll..."

His gaze seeks yours from the shadows. His eyelids are heavy, but in his eyes burns something that goes beyond the mezcal: that wounded pride, the certainty that he is serenading you not to ask for forgiveness, but because, even lost and broken, he is still himself.He ends the last stanza, dragging his voice with a hint of melancholy:

"But I'm still the king."

And there he remains, waiting for an answer that he will never demand from you.