spring is coming to my land the senabresa. We were going to be thrown making surveyors, making it very far the " curtain behind the house" for the day are no longer the biggest, little know what to expect. But the amic Joao, who had officiated an expert, still with its engineering tests and could not close. Walking in my town. Solo. And I thought, not only in the landscape. On how we cling to it, how a world uncorrupted dream that never existed. He thought as he turned for home in the land poor, desolate part of my memory, my obsessions, and without which I can not explain myself. In how last night while walking with my parents and the little wood smelled burning here and at the end of winter I had the feeling of smelling my childhood, when my father recounted the day's work: sweeping the curtinerio , dig in Nogueria ... The other day I read somewhere ( dilettante as I am superficial and shallow readings) that neurologists believe that the first memories that we recorded in the mind are the last to be deleted when one gets older and loses the Oremus. So come here or small, or the children did not return when they are teenagers. Is not too late.
now is falling in the afternoon. It's time to take the bike and start the way back. Sorry, with Hilario Tundidor " The freshness of the air / moisture in lip." It was a good idea to come. Or again, that I have never clear when I get here ...
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