El viernes 11 de febrero a las ocho y media en el Museu Etnològic de Xaló:
Finding the vineyard.
Circular wires drive us over silver streamers and purple leaf buds to a deep shaft in the matter. Raised from the ground, a few meters over our heads, can be heard the sinister buzz and the coldness from the sea wind and the hammering knocking of the vine shoots crossing and breaking up in the ancient space. Some old, wretched and begging stocks close to disappearing among the weeds and the carelessness. An excessive and youthful vigour still preserves them in the kingdom of glasses, among the aroma of vineyards. Pierced by sickness and devoured by insects, some will disappear with a subtle movement, will stop beating and will simply fall noiseless. They will not suffer any graft, or dripping or transfusions or detachment. Only we will lose, the vineyards will lose.
Trowels full of muddy earth bury and smudge the horizon. Homogeneous patches that fill and restore the black holes. Little by little the juicy and robust core scattered over the limestone disappears. Earth of dirty sheep and devoured stones, of strident whites and perturbed bones stuck in the glasses exposed to the radiant surface.
Meanwhile, we keep wondering about the soullessness of those frozen ashes in eternity and the yellowish needles stop scratching the space.
And I would like to disappear in the kingdom of white where you are, stepping on the silver shell and looking at the far blue of the sea.
When everything goes green, the fight has finished.
La traducción es de Víctor Felipo, amigo de mi querida Silvia.
