El cant de les granotes

Footprints of deer lost in the woods, twilight and twilight melting with the long winter, men and women walking alone and helpless, a vast uninhabited territory that draws the passage of the seasons and falls in love while demanding solutions lost by the drawers of progress and uniformity. The so-called Spanish Lapland contrasts in a way with the false Mediterranean abundance, and acts as a refuge for those seeking something more than temporary well-being and holiday peace. A forgotten land, yes, but a great opportunity, the space through which runs an anonymous routine that does not aspire to great modernity, where one can reconnect with oneself while hearing the murmur of the wild river or savoring the beauty of everything folded, from the most insignificant detail to the unattainable immensity: the perfumes of nature, the depth of language, the crackling of firewood in the fireplace, the water flowing down the mountainside, the symphony of a forest as beautiful as it is untouched, the penetrating silence that soaks everything... With respect for the flag, the narrative self falls prey to a literary spell that looms as the cold recedes and gives way to a spring dreamlike of infinite letters.