A romantic view of the Cave of the Seven Altars

A romantic view of the Cave of the Seven Altars
'Everything happens and everything is,
but ours is to pass;
go by making roads,
paths on the sea ... '(1)
There is a forest, and a river and also a rocky promontory, in whose belly of stone life developed in the amniotic fluid of History. It's August, but deep down, the station hardly matters. Not long ago, the sun has come off, a few hours after the evening singing of the roosters, that touch of rustic and imperative target, which sets the corral recruits in motion and makes the dreamers unhappy, who feel that their desires, trapped in that classic ivory horn through which, according to the ancient Greeks, dreams emerge, they escape through the open window, dragged by the sweet morning breeze like motes of dust heading desperately towards the heart of a galaxy called Oblivion.

In the distance, in that part where the Duratón River also forms arches of a crossbow, as Maese Machado would say, referring to the Duero as it passes through San Saturio, the shadows refuse to retreat, occupying, with spartan determination, barricades of silence. Anyone would say that it is the same silence of the holy hermits that one day occupied to the last bend of this cave or natural belly, feminine and cozy, to be reborn, with sevenmesina spirituality, to a new life of sacrifice and wisdom.

On the contrary, in this other part, where our footsteps provoke Borinca laments in the dry leaves, evicted from their branches, the rays of that same sun - euphoria, atonic and triumphant - draw ghosts on the chiaroscuros of the ground and then surf the surface of the river, dressed in suits of garlands and sequins, which bicetiples of bass drum and cabaret.

The current, irremissible magnet of that river of life, always points towards the magnetic pole of the sea, as if remembering its primitive antediluvian nobility. Perhaps someone else wonders if the drops that drag, like tiny souls, go through that white tunnel, after the final transit, to get rid of the foam of Nirvana.

Notes:

(1) Antonio Machado.