As if we could name and say the word that makes us horizon, the voice pursued in the dark glow of exile, the wounded by the unscathed miracle of hope, that was laboriously transmitted in the long dark night comparing analogies, cleansing texts, tissues, bones, fragments of a blinded clarity, raised love lance that would restore the world, create meaning and announce the return of dissolved, forgotten in smoke and earth: pieces of adobe now join, recompose the vessel , the broken pitcher of life and water returns, the bowl is a space where the being lives, flows, caresses the rough convexity that contains everything, is present that perpetuates itself, becomes lavender or broom, it is a bird, a donkey, a stone, hope girl or twilight that stretches and brushes us like surprise, limit, incarnation that sounds and resounds, like music lying in the infinite, like waves of a time stopped, a sea without shores where to their origin the rivers return , froth of foam or wind, crystal notes that now collide, spread, ignite the present of reconciliation and new we gather, we cross silences, palpamos soul, matter, words.

Antonio Crespo Massieu: Elegía en Portbou (Bartleby, 2011).

Image: "Walter Benjamin Memorial". Portbou (Girona), August 2008.

Ancient Mother ~ Robert Gass (432 Hz) - YouTube
The trees intercept the water, store some of it, reduce the excessive runoff caused by storms and the possibility of flooding. Dew and frost are less common under trees because the soil releases less radiant energy at night in those areas.

Sounds: Lost song by Olafur Arnalds.