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As túas balas » Blog Archive

Escribo baixo os efectos do alcol, teño que confesalo. Estou en Tarragona, cidade preciosa que é como Ourense, algo máis grande. Ceei magré de parrulo ás froitas do bosque e torradiñas de sobrasada e queixo con pinóns e millo, e bebín viño do Montsant (na Terra Alta). Pero o dí­a quedou indefectibelmente marcado por Belchite. Miña nai non sabe dicirme se meu avó loitou en Belchite, pero aí­ estaban as ruínas dos edificios, os váteres, as casas tapiadas, as igrexas destruídas… Belchite. Repí­too e pregúntome qué carallo facía eu en Oswieczim (Austwich) tendo tan preto Belchite. Tan dorosa. Tan terríbel. E sen embargo, nin un só letreiro sinala nas ruínas quen foi o culpábel de todo iso ou por qué agora o Pueblo Viejo de Belchite non existe.

Na radio catalá protestan os converxentes. :) Fólgome. Lola ten olliños novos. Atrás quedan Calatayud (unha alfaia), e Maella (de Gargallo), e Fuendetodos (de Goya), e Belmonte de Gracián. E fago caso a este mestre, e remato.


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