It’s Monday, what Blue would say, and after a weekend of intense work, at mid-morning I prepare the backpack with something to eat, read, write … And I take on the fly the decision of the chosen place for today. It’s still cold, winter is slowly shelling out its days, but it’s a magnificent sun, so I head for Cercedilla, one of my favorite walks places.
Cercedilla is about 60 km from Madrid.
From there in about 6 Km you arrive to the Dehesas of Cercedilla, in the valley of the Fuenfría, to immerse you of full in the fragrant pine forest of albar or pine of Valsain, one of the most interesting forests of the area.
Besides the beautiful landscape and the enormous biodiversity that surrounds you, in the meadows there are still sections of an old Roman road.
The Roman road of the Fuenfría dates from the time of the Roman Emperor Vespasiano, who ruled between the years 69 and 79 D. C.
Every time I walk on its stones polished for centuries, I can not help thinking about the enormous effort it took to build those real highways, while I imagine how were the lives of people who crossed the Sierra Camino de Segovia by that road would they be traders, soldiers, adventurers, slaves? How many loves were forged on his stones? How many verses were written in that transparent and fragrant air?
Here have walked Antonio Machado, Vicente Aleixandre or Luis Rosales, and in his honor has enabled the viewpoint of poets.
Luis Rosales The nights of Cercedilla I carry in my loneliness and are already the last frontier that I would like to look
Vicente Aleixandre: On this lonely summit I look at you fields that will never return for my eyes. Immense sun-stone, eternal world and the nightingale so faint that in its brim haunts him
Roman road on its way through the Descalzo Bridge
Mirador de los Poetas
On the Mountain
Like blue veins
I open branches
to the Beauty
Perhaps his poem “My Son” represents like no other that way of feeling, living and writing.
I’m free, I’m told.
but if I wanted to have another child
I’d take him to the corner Bank.
because they own my home.
My boy would call the Director father
and mother to the teller
he’d learn to walk by holding an office chair
he’d sleep in a file drawer
and I’d be a distant relative
smiling at him from my place in line.
I’d drop by and ask to increase my mortgage
just to see how they’d raised him
how he reacts to air conditioning whether
he knows how to send a Fax
and if the Director’s given him a set of frying pans
for his birthday.
(from the book Desde la alambrada de mi boca)
Ana in front of Congress
The Cats look for watchtowers
The Cats look for watchtowers
from which to contemplate the world.
They slumber, knowing safe;
I build a wall around me after a book.
Says the poet Rigo that the last
Armor is loyalty.
The females we understand:
The world is a danger at our disposal.
(of sums and remainders)
If one day you hear me
-After one night
Where I’ve turned out to be
Of those women who drink
And they get funny
of bars and acids and travel
and beds and Fuckers
With disheveled hair
and the lipstick ruined
As if I just came from
to smooch in the bathroom
with the most handsome guy
of the bar-
If one day
After one of these nights
in which I practice
of Charmer snakes
When I say goodbye
You hear me saying
That I’m just a fraud
The applause addicts
We also need witnesses
When we take off
(from Alfabeto de Cicatrices)