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As túas balas » Blog Archive

marchan

Dedico o mércores a vagar por oxford, relaxadamente.

Levo un libro e póusome debaixo dun arce. De cando en cando abre o sol. Hai un xílgaro preto. Uns mozotes beben coma cosacos sobre a herba: levan traxe, camisa branca e gravata afrouxada. Berran e brindan.

Érguese un pouco de aire, e antes de que chova, bótome a camiñar. Chego ata a casa dos exames, un pazo polo que por estas datas estiveron pasando toda a xente de oxford, de todos os niveis, de todas as facultades. É tempo de marcharen os alumnos e crúzome con algúns coches cargados de caixas con libros e pesas, e carteis anunciando a compra de bicicletas usadas.

Agora, na tarde, relustra o sol contra as pedras da rúa. Nas fendas, medran os confetis como a herba, resto dos recibimentos que lles fan os amigos aos que saen do último exame. Guíndoo cara ao ceo e anque sexa confeti, proclámoo: confeti. Anque sexa confeti canto teño ata agora, canto se me deitou a modo de esperanza.


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