Trace now a curve, round the peak of O Cebreiro, the passageway into Gaelic Spain, as yet near free from the sully of our faithless hearts, the defunctness of folklore. Its spirits troubled and trickster fays know not our harsh morals but squeeze between our laws as light through alabaster, with mellow mood and gentle gait. This domain of thin fleshed sprites is said to be guarded by Cerberus, whose six great eyes wander the hills each eve as ignes fatui. The wind is wrought by his wild breath, exasperated as he shakes us, but fleas to him, rippling the treetops.
Only the vivid paints of the landscape brand the permeant lust. Immortal green, vehement violet and ardent cerulean, the passions pressed, egressing from these ethereal channels saturate our carnate world with what the gitanos call "duende", goblin or ghost. This force manifests too in contours we too can comprehend, but rarely see. Bearded gnomes buried in forest bulwarks shouldering your path, their rooted beards palpating the air, seeking your sudor. Dead, crusted trolls amidst the countless broken trees and crumpled leaves idling about, but his right arm reared, its hand vacant, more than empty, hollow, a porthole through his palm voiding our vision. Rustling, restless hobgoblins hiding in the bushes revert to the verd guise of great lizards, which as quickly turn to air. Smell it now. You'll catch the scent of burning hair, the self-styled torches of minute elves, baits for the giant moths they gallop, the flame a carrot, the shaft a cane. Listen to yours as it hits the ground, its echoes tell of tunnels running deep beneath, harbouring impish armies feeding on sulphur and lime, but field mice too and pilgrim rods when these abound.
Each year they grow extinct, as their ambient is divested. Just as we fall as flies without our oxygen, they cannot breathe an air that has no silence, absence of speech for its own sake. We're used to give quiet to the dead, but we should give it also to the living. Indeed, it is their gift to us, for without stillness we've no soul.
Only the vivid paints of the landscape brand the permeant lust. Immortal green, vehement violet and ardent cerulean, the passions pressed, egressing from these ethereal channels saturate our carnate world with what the gitanos call "duende", goblin or ghost. This force manifests too in contours we too can comprehend, but rarely see. Bearded gnomes buried in forest bulwarks shouldering your path, their rooted beards palpating the air, seeking your sudor. Dead, crusted trolls amidst the countless broken trees and crumpled leaves idling about, but his right arm reared, its hand vacant, more than empty, hollow, a porthole through his palm voiding our vision. Rustling, restless hobgoblins hiding in the bushes revert to the verd guise of great lizards, which as quickly turn to air. Smell it now. You'll catch the scent of burning hair, the self-styled torches of minute elves, baits for the giant moths they gallop, the flame a carrot, the shaft a cane. Listen to yours as it hits the ground, its echoes tell of tunnels running deep beneath, harbouring impish armies feeding on sulphur and lime, but field mice too and pilgrim rods when these abound.
Each year they grow extinct, as their ambient is divested. Just as we fall as flies without our oxygen, they cannot breathe an air that has no silence, absence of speech for its own sake. We're used to give quiet to the dead, but we should give it also to the living. Indeed, it is their gift to us, for without stillness we've no soul.
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