Nature and contemplation

I come from where leaves take flightand let themselves tumble so they may tellthe silence the good news.

I come from where the windgathers intentions.

Let the plain burn until we lose our sightand choke upon the loss.There will be flames, though after the great blackening,new life.

Let the plain burn until it suffocates us.After the blackening, green will growagain.

Beautiful storm, across which plains do you roam,raising whirlwinds of dust and tumbling seeds?Whirlwind of the plains, what are you waiting forto bring me news all tangled up—the kind that snatches the words from me and,if I am careless, fills my mouth with earth?

Come. I am waiting with my mouth closedand my hands open, so that I mayenter your heart and quietly admireeverything you have gathered along your way.

I will leave without worryingwhere you will cast everything you carried away.I will be at peace.

I will blow until my words fly with the wind.May they churn in the sky,become drizzle or downpour.May their sounds fall, spent, down slopes of dry leavesand become the hillside’s murmur.

May the scents of dry grass slipinto that silence between phrases.Here, at the bottom of the ravine,a thousand stories lie anchored in the earth.

In that riverbed of our memories,they peer out through your gaze—a gaze that does not know where that feeling is born.I will kneel a little, drawing closer to that same voicethat will carry away my longings and fantasiesand make them other stories, other words, other slopes,or simply a cloud covering the mountain.

It is the fertile earth that sustains us,and upon it we find one another to give life.

Happy to be upon it with you and to see as faras our meeting allows us.

Even when the scorpion asksto climb onto my back and cross the pond,I will resist my nature to helpand recognize its nature to sting.

Some will never change.Nature knows this well.

Now only dust sits in this chair.A chair that seems to need no care,for it is clear it has already lived long enough.I shake it clean every day and make sure it is ready.

When I turn around, once again I findthe stubborn dust that refuses to leave it.My patience is accompaniedby time past and time to come.

The passing of time remains settled there,and although I clean it, it returns and sits unmoved.It cares for nothing. Feels nothing. Claims nothing,yet takes everything.It settles upon everything.

That is how dust is: it is there. It arrives, accumulates,and slowly covers everything.It begins with the chair that stands available,gathering because no one is there.

What meaning can dust haveother than reminding us that it is there with us?I draw near, pass a cloth over it, and watcha small cloud rise around me, showing methe magic held in its lightness.

It rises and keeps me company. I clean ituntil I believe nothing remains.

Two cups of coffeeto drink little by little,in small sipswhile the aroma fills the space.

The second is there in case it is needed—in case the sips grow longer orthere is a need to breathe deeply.

Coffee is meant to be taken alonewhile thinking in silence.

How we arrived does not matter;what matters is what arises from the encounter.

From the moment and its words, accompaniedby the curiosity to discover.

What matters is the pretext for holding the air a momentand savoring the presence in silence.

The waves will leave their journey upon the sandand carry away a present somewhat churned,a little disordered, yet held within the strengthof the whole sea—of our sea.

Figure moving as you warm the air, you leavemy eyes provoked, trying to follow your passage from the moment you rise, burning,until the instant you disappear at the tipof the flame, become nothing but warm vapor.

In the middle of the countryside, among grasslands and ravines,I have a life inside a rustic, very simple house.

Stories live within it,along with tales of mules that carried lives.

Today, toads in my house guard its secrets,mice steal away the memories,and dogs bark at the promises of oblivion.

If you pay attention, spiders emerge from the corners,hurrying to weave loves.Here, within these walls, dust hides,never missing a pretext to stir into the airat a sigh or upon witnessing one of my tearsthat suddenly appears.

Here, where this is no couple’s house,it is nonetheless home to the brazenness of my madness.No one will come to cook for me or warm my bed,but there will always be a beetle slippingunder the door to announce thatthe road outside is long while inside it seems short.

Here, where the road is made of earthand the neighbors still ride their horses,proud of our countryside.Here, where the land is everythingand I am the most ignorant among the others,unable to distinguish one herb from another,a promise of the rainy season, or simplyto notice the storm cloud already on its waywhile all I see is a clear day.

Here, in this raw earth where there are menwho are experts in other lives,hardworking farmers who rise before dawn without knowing the day; here,where the ravine begins and one can lose oneselfamong its branches and thorns;here, where one breathes deeply without company;here, where I do not lose hope of returning one dayto know that, once this distance is resolved,the squeals of bats may emerge from the night,making their way while the crickets soundand dogs in the distance barkat your absence, more noticeable each day.

It is a dreamlike place for telling stories and weaving spells.If the magic works, there will be another story to tell.

Toads—I find one or two in the house every day.They are among the magical gifts I discover here.They give me the opportunity to create tales,unforgettable moments and, above all, something I can share.

If any magic exists, it is precisely the opportunityto live an encounter worthy of a story.

Toads and pumpkins mark the seasons in this countryside,signaling the rains, the earth, and its cultivation.

Here, where the earth keeps its historyand the stones recount what happened.

There is no doubt: I am a friend to the trees and to the wind that makes them dance.

When the wind arrives and plays with the leaves, it invites them to fly. I watch them break free andjoyfully begin their journey. They flutter in the air, spin, turn somersaults, and leap withoutworrying where they will arrive.

If I am there, I join their game. I travel with them from one place to another, free, without a destination. I sharethat singular thrill felt only when you fly.

My daughter, however, has different friends: the birds. Learning this filled me with joy. Nowour friends—the trees, the wind, and the birds—live together in harmony. They fly alone, butthey also land wherever they choose, just as we do.

Today, thanks to them, we can share the warmth of the sun, hide within its rays, touch theearth, and rise again and again.

Together, we enjoy the melodies of the wind, its gentle lullaby, and the songs of ourwinged friends.

I love watching my friends—the trees, the birds, and the wind—when they are alone.They do not need us, nor do we need them. But when we are all together, it is marvelous.We smile and lift our arms toward the sky.

We are here, free. Sometimes together, sometimes apart, but always free.