Cabeza del Buey dixit
… Thou wast always path, only path for men and beasts, of illusions that were lost without care, hope entangled in vine shoots.
I have on the slopes of my head, such as stone, the history of this land. I have seen all its centuries, I have referred to the manner in which each day is created, the way of wrapping themselves in itself, as the dust settles on the jara that pales and clouds, but that does not cease to be that for what it has been born. And you, mother, you have no more fate that to be uterus of dreamers and burial of disillusioned. In your womb swallows generations of ancient and strange peoples, ephemeral kingdoms engraved on the “pizorros” who believed to own you unsuccessfully, and who longed for missing you without success. Unhappy, they were left with the color of your disdains at their fingertips; The glazed eyes of impossible dreams, breasts accustomed to hailstorms and suns, terse arms of straws and sheaves. Hapless people who arrived with the whole and new life of the newly born and then they left, after spending it between your “gasones” and stone cairns, with nothing beyond the hands but a rosary of calluses and a dry and disconsolate Requiescat in pace.
I’ve seen you grow, old midwife, turn into what you ever dreamed of you could be, what the roads brought you. I’ve seen you adorn yourself, severe lady, of kings and poets who gave you no more than promises and mild and subtle words. I’ve seen you dress up, former owner of mule carts that carried more misery than wine. And I’ve seen you undress, air keeper; because thou wast always path, only path for men and beats, of illusions that were lost without care, hope entangled in vine shoots. Path of times and wills that could see in you nothing but the dust of the road that shook from themselves when they left it. Poor blind, children of others, that being ignorant they did not imagine that you are more than Royal road, livestock path or transhumant way. Thou art not only sun, not only land, not only oak woods of fire and pebbles, but sleep, rest, sweet pillow, fresh honeysuckle of sand.
Jorge Juan Cerro de Lara