Like soap foam
There was a humble person who grew up, lived and died being a good man, whose childhood memories have led many of us to dream unconsciously of that courtyard in Seville next to whose fountain the lemon tree grew and to which perhaps, that beloved character arrived. from one of his parables, that as a sailor he became a gardener and made a garden by the sea.
This good man - whose name I give myself the whim of not revealing, but of which it should be added, for more signs, that I saw in the bark of the poplars that shudder with the winds of the Moncayo, anchored like packets on the Soria riverbank of the Duero , initials that are names of lovers and numbers that are dates-he also observed, letting himself be carried away, perhaps, by the spell of the languid autumn evenings, worlds as fragile as soap bubbles.
Worlds that, in his own words, he loved because they were subtle, weightless and gentle as soap bubbles, and that he liked to see them paint themselves with sun and red, fly under the blue sky, suddenly tremble and break.
In short, anyone would say, after all, that he was describing precisely those worlds that are perceived, without going any further, through a simple crystal ball.
NOTICE: Both the text and the accompanying photographs are my exclusive intellectual property.