Maceiras

(Apple trees. In English, below)

Percorro o mundo incansablemente, percorro os escritos do mundo enteiro tentando entender como cada quen constrúe a súa felicidade, recoñezo nesta humanidade a miña patria, recoñézome en calquera ser humano que goza e sofre, sen importar o tono de pel, a latitude onde mora ou a língua falada.

A outra patria, a física, estáchevos feita de moitos dos lugares onde me criei, todos os que salpicou o amor e se foron facendo un recunchiño no meu corazón dende pequeno. Se tivera que escoller só un quedaríame coa herbeira de Canles, porque semella feita á medida do meu carácter introvertido; estaba rodeada polo monte, tiña forma triangular e chegábase alí por un carreiro en curva de xeito que ao entrares nela parecía que quedabas aillado do resto do universo. No vértice do fondo había unha presa de rego que se enchía coa auga dunha mina. A cada lado da herbeira corría unha canle para levar a auga ás seguintes leiras, daí lle viña o nome. O terreo era afundido lixeiramente cara ao centro, estaba mesmo no verán a herba enchoupada de auga, e na parte máis afastada da presa había unhas cantas maceiras que facían de aquel o meu paraíso idílico. Todo nela, incluso as suas dimensións se adaptaba á medida dos meus soños.

Dende o punto de vista práctico era bastante incómoda de traballar, ás máquinas enterrábanselle as rodas, por iso había que segar a gadaña, coas botas de goma. Pero na miña memória o espazo tempo foise dobrando sobre si mesmo de tal maneira que só quedou ese sitio íntimo ao que ía na hora da sesta dos meses máis quentes, a aillarme do mundo mentres o mundo durmía.

Xa non están as catro vacas que precisaban de tanta herba e a natureza voltou recuperar o seu, cubriu os prados e borrou do google maps aquel meu paraíso, a terriña agarrada como un carracho na miña alma.

O pasado é unha materia disolta á que só a mente segue a manterlle a forma.

O real é xustamente un patrimonio inmaterial que non desaparece porque nunca tivo forma. O meu fogar, a miña tribo, a Humanidade no seu sentido máis amplo: a miña patria.

APPLE TREES

I travel the world tirelessly, I travel the writings of the whole world trying to understand how everyone builds their happiness, I recognize in this humanity my homeland, I recognize myself in any human being who enjoys and suffers, no matter the skin tone, the latitude where he lives or the language they speak.

The other homeland, the tangible one, is made up of many of the places where I grew up, all of which were sprinkled with love and have stayed in a corner of my heart since I was a child. If I had to choose just one I would stick with the meadow called Canals, because it seems tailor-made for my introverted character; it was surrounded by the forest, it had a triangular shape and you reached there by a curved path so that when you entered it, it seemed that you were isolated from the rest of the universe. At the apex of the bottom, there was an irrigation dam that was filled with water from a kind of spring in the forest locally called a mine. On each side of the meadow ran a canal to carry the water to the following estates, hence its name. The ground was sunk slightly towards the center, even in summer the grass soaked with water, and in the farthest part of the dam there were a few apple trees that made it my idyllic paradise. Everything in it, even its dimensions, suited the measure of my dreams.

From a practical point of view it was quite uncomfortable to work with, the machines buried the wheels, so you had to mow with the scythe, wearing rubber boots. But in my memory, space-time leaned on itself in such a way that there was only that intimate place that I used to go to during nap times in the warmest months, to isolate myself from the world while the world slept.

The four cows, that needed so much grass, left and nature regained its place, covered the meadows and erased that paradise of mine from google maps, this piece of land stuck like a tick in my soul.

The past is a dissolved matter to which only the mind continues to maintain its shape.

The real is precisely an intangible heritage that does not disappear because it never took shape. My home, my tribe, Humanity in its broadest sense: my homeland.

Responder

Introduce tus datos o haz clic en un icono para iniciar sesión:

Logo de WordPress.com

Estás comentando usando tu cuenta de WordPress.com. Salir /  Cambiar )

Google photo

Estás comentando usando tu cuenta de Google. Salir /  Cambiar )

Imagen de Twitter

Estás comentando usando tu cuenta de Twitter. Salir /  Cambiar )

Foto de Facebook

Estás comentando usando tu cuenta de Facebook. Salir /  Cambiar )

Conectando a %s

Crea tu sitio web con WordPress.com
Empieza ahora
A %d blogueros les gusta esto: