sculpture. WALTER MARTIN AND PALOMA MUÑOZ
The crows are here, they plunge bad-tempered on the electric wires
and stay for a spell, staring at my street’s frozen landscape.
While I walk and look at the sky so high and clean, nothing moves in
the desolation of winter.
The earth has turned again, completing its interminable cycle. Now
sun, now night. It’s up to us to see the time of the harvest, the truce.
Many small animals will die in the season of frost, others, those that
have wings, will go far away.
We have gathered a few dry branches to get a bonfire going. And as
we have done for centuries, we’ll sit in a circle and wait. We’ll sing a
song that says how beautiful life is.
It truly is. The fire enlivens the memory and helps us imagine that the
sun will return again and that in the meantime we need to feed our
hopes, weave colorful blankets, make interlaced knots of good wishes,
create fantastic dreams, now light, now dark.
Do you remember last winter? We went up to the bridge and from
there we saw the river iced over. Nothing can be more sublime nor
more moving than life apparently frozen.
Come, put in this pan the walnuts that you found at the foot of the
tree, I will add honey and oats, fragrant kinds that I kept in the shade
during summer. We’ll celebrate the vigil as we have done since
always, since we were others, protected by the blessing of being alive.