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As túas balas » Blog Archive

reykjavik

Cando todo o mundo estaba pendente doutra cousa, eu estaba nun concerto fabuloso. Os sete chavaliños de Múm, cos mellores cabelos, os mellores ollos azuis e os mellores peitos de toda islandia, choutaban polo escenario e rían. Todos tocaban todo: pasaban do xilófono ao serrucho, de aí á guitarra, despois ao powerbook, e ao final paraban todos pra soar unhas campaíñas made na illa do tododía ou todanoite. Trouxeron pra sentar un tapete estampado de caribús, un violín-corneta, e un chufichufi con teclas que fungaba cun tubo de vento.

Víaos, escoitábaos, e esquecía o fragor do mundo. Pensaba cómo sería escoitar isto nun pub en reykjavik, mentres fóra neva, ou chían os paxaros pra un sol que non se deita. Saltáronme as bágoas tres veces e saín aboiando cando chovía no escuro da cidade.

Quero que soe múm no nacemento dos meus fillos, e tamén no meu enterro.

E quero marchar, quero saber a qué arrecenden as rúas por onde estes chavaliños van do conservatorio á sauna, onde bican, onde mercan os bocadillos de balea.


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