Wednesday, October 27

Of wolves and cubs


You will see war plains and ascetic moors

Wasn’t the biblical garden in these fields?

They are lands for the eagle, a piece of the planet

where the shadow of Cain wanders.

Antonio Machado died in exile. Together with his mother. She said she was willing to live the same as her son. He died three days later.

Miserable Castilla, yesterday dominating,

wrapped in her rags, she despises what she ignores.

Heat, protection and food. Sculpted love with offering and sacrifice. Hinge between life and death.

Mother, you won’t always be able to protect me.

It was a dark morning, one of those days that seem like nights.

Those men caught him. He was small, six months maybe.

Nothing happened. And time passed.

But that image came to me.

They are four.

An ugly and heavy watch hangs from a yellowed hand.

His grimaces are mocking, his eyes empty.

They drink from plastic cups and wear military boots.

One of them kneels against the cub’s neck.

Like they did to George Floyd. They pile up for the picture

their faces are reminiscent of the old men that Goya painted eating soup.

I can hear them from here.

Sustained obscenity in the backyard of a place called

Europe. The land of the Nobel Prize winners. The land for which

path.

The first thing I read about wolves is that few die of natural causes. Traps, poisons, abuses. Above, always the shot: illegal or legal. Curious term to designate and design the same result. Like a tap that never closes properly, the animals, drop by drop, turn to smoke. Invisible, like those children lost in the black of an infinite sea. Failed fragments, sheltered in the shells. Many times, I don’t understand this world.

Inland, the little wolf by force defeated the storm, he fled from the pain drawing a path with red to escape.

The second issue that caught my attention in my reading is the status of wolves as a key species. Its importance in ecosystems is similar to that of the central segment of a semicircular arch. Without it, the rest of the stones would collapse.

A delicate balance. Like a piece of velvet that is lightly caressed, being careful not to fray it. Life is not easy.

I have also learned that wolves tend to live in families. The older ones teach the little ones the questions of life. As did our fathers, mothers, aunts and sisters. Culture does not belong to humans, we only gave it a name. The universe is a conglomerate of languages ​​and meanings. Not understanding them does not exclude their existence. When a wolf is killed, the bonds are broken, they are torn as in a war. Love is lost, life is broken and roots disappear.

I return to Goya like someone looking for a roof on a stormy day. The darkness of his painting is today an immense light. Marginal and brittle. So I imagine it. Like the dog that watches in the middle of that yellow spot. Without advancing, without judging. Questioning the meaning of the Whole. Years ago, that gaze was torn from the privacy of a wall to rest on the entire world. Saura said of it that it was the most beautiful painting in the world.

Dawn rises, an orange light warms my cheeks. The breeze is cool and a floral scent accompanies it. In the distance, a she-wolf examines the horizon. This is the second time you have allowed me to contemplate it. It looks strong and healthy. She also lives in the land of Machado, a place of vultures and golden eagles.

When I look at her, I see a woman. I see a being that resists, always attentive, always alert. I see an animal whose gaze seems tired, like one who crosses the sea and the land fleeing from an eternal war, from a constant persecution, from an extermination. When I look at it, time stops and thousands of years walk backwards. An animal observing another animal.

She, without knowing it, also asks us why so much

struggle. Nobody chooses in what latitude it is born or what species it is.

When we are born we only choose to live.



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