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As túas balas » Blog Archive

púrpura
Encántanme os incendios forestais.
Vexo aquí, aló, acolá sinais de carraxe, indignación, incluso pánico por conta deles. É sempre razoábel, pero desta volta aínda máis, cando parece que arden a un tempo os piñeiros e a ilusión destes cen días que se nos deberían dar de marxe.
Vexo esa carraxe e secúndoa, e dóeme ver a destrución e pensar no tempo, no tempo perdido, no tempo e no traballo que vai levar reconstruír cada folla de herba, cada xesta, cada rebolo destemido. Pero non podo deixar de sentir ao mesmo tempo un inmenso pracer. Non podo senón estarrecerme ao ver eses inmensos ceos púrpura ao solpor, como de fin do mundo, como de prince. E por iso, mentres guío o coche coa fiestra baixa, respirando fondo toda esa paixón do áer, todo ese parfume de enerxía extinta, mentres risco o accidente por prenderme de nubes rubias e solpores, recito aqueles versos de valente: e anque sexa borralla proclámoo: borralla. Anque sexa borralla canto teño ata agora, canto se me deitou a modo de espranza.


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