"I wish I could write
in on this shipment:
'My mother,
Galicia Sky',
and he reached his destination.
Entry
not find record of this land in any atlas, great and thorough it is. Can be found in them all, the Blessed Islands or Lands of the Great Tamerlane, but not much smaller, which opens to the sea and refuses in secluded valleys. And yet there.
unsteady hand that distinguishes the good cartographer, has never drawn an arbitrary festoon their environment, and drawn in blue ink rivers, mountains of brown, and the rest green, deep green, homogeneous, to delude ourselves with a vegetation that really goes all the rust and to black.
But I know it exists and where. I know where their people are hiding in the countryside, just released by the burning lamps ranging from one to another gray stone house where the evening progresses, I know of oaks planted in the grow-minute circle that covers the land; know de sus alamedas y también del mar que se abre entre montañas [...]
Cuando me aproximo a esta tierra, es la música la que se adelanta como dueña a saludarme. No puedo olvidarla por una razón simple: la oí por primera vez en una canción de cuna.
Es tierra de mi madre y no mía [...] por ella corrió haciendo pareja con el viento; se perdió en la niebla siguiendo la orilla sinuosa del mar; la oyó cantar desde la entraña recóndita. Por ella corre aún, vieja ya [...] Pero no va sola: aprieta mi mano con la suya en la que el tiempo enfundó un rough glove. And we'll run more and who soon discovers the first blocks hidden in the tree. And I wonder, when I descend to this thought, if she who bears the child's hand or if I'm the one that runs through this land and jog my daughter beside me or are these two, grandmother and granddaughter, the are discovering a secret garden jubilant, while the gaze from a vague dream.
have to run to cover the land, that is ours. A closed rain hits, dipping, until no longer see, and so, when we lose, we know at once that is ours. That rain that does not diminish the splendor of sun which falls, as long as we are losing, which also are and we are living luxuriously coated layer of water that never stops, where we recognize one last time as them.
Mother, daughter, myself: a childhood blood through all remains. For her land and therefore does not reach cava in memory access to another to keep running in the sun and rain. When there is no land or is small and some that we expected, that other long stretches before us. There is no end to tempt with magical omens. It is ours as any can be, because nobody will play their stuff we patiently amassed during a short life. "
Earth Angel Rama no map (1959)
