I look at myself, again and again, my feet, in these faded slippers, without vanity, without presumptions, always pushing me forward, as God made me. I still look, no longer passionate, but with a fecund tenderness, sitting here on the old bench of the barbecue, like a king looking at his empire, everything that my hands have fertilized, the trees, the flowers, the fruits of my sweat, of my love redeeming itself in my eyes, anchoring me to the earth. Opulence does not live here, nor does appearance make a nest. I am that little bird that flies without fear, kissing the plain and longing for the sky of the world. It is not from the land that I want to leave, but from the ignorant and unbelieving people who sow envy and ugly malice wherever they look, religiously syncopated with their envious intrigue, forgetting that the nature of the land is the same as that of us. That never ends. That she is tender and beautiful. Therefore, the thresholds are loaded. And I ask myself: have you seen how humble your house is, how miserable your dreams have been, without sparkle or regurgitation? And the existential question arises: Is this me? And the soul answers me that yes, that I am this, that I have always been like this, with a stain on my shirt, with a tear in my tracksuit, with this look of a foreigner, who only gets along with nature and animals and does not like people when in group doses, or in stratified samples, neither flocks nor herds. This is clearly you, a tree here, another there, a branch of fruit, a flowering nectar sprinkled with grass and wildflowers, this is you in your country version, always wild, always whole, always until you die in and out of the breaks. Society doesn't know you. But it is made up of many like you, strangers in the midst of equals, like unequal days, like the banality of the world, where there are people, there will always be different people, rejected by others. This is you, in your peacefulness, in your plurality of human and believing beings, sweet, so sweet that any bitter taste in the mouth takes you to Lancelot, to the gall that the social group weaves, that the world does not pity, nor tremble in your woes, that glorifies its humans, Neanderthals, the rougher, the uglier, the more opportunistic, more medals, awards and newspaper sales, you are not, you are of the minstrels, without seamless. You are the joy, the journey, the challenge, the truth, the river and the scribe of our tribe. We are all with you.
This is me, I still have myself left here, my eyelids already like worn blinds, they still animate and come to watch the breeze touch the branches, kiss the sparrows, the doves, the turtledoves, ah, what a brave eagle they made you that when you see people you shiver inside, feeling that you do not belong to that human kingdom, you are animal, that you are more chirping, more odors, more musical, more love, you are a whim of nature, you always flaunt this primordial essence, because you are whole and do not sell your ideals. Your wings fly over the fields, the oceans, always with the same naivety of childhood and that is you, whole, that is the ultimate, the baker of aljubarrota who does not run away from life, who is captive to beauty and who does not accept defeats in matters of humanity, singular, character, savage and empathetic, who lost you was not you, You remain the same, without ambitions of human wealth, among the others. But when you see yourself as you are, soon the ream of ancestors goes with you, happy to be different, among equals. You will be the striga of the family, the bond that unites without binding, that loosens without rotting the honor of your ancestors.
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