Post by account_disabled on Dec 11, 2023 3:33:15 GMT
On the sun-baked field, under the midday heat, ocotillas sprouted from the ground like tufts of thinning hair on an old man's head. The man who walked like a homeless ghost observed the now faded Phone Number Data patina of almagre that stained the ancient chipped and half-collapsed ruins. He wiped the sweat with the edge of his serapes , spat out a lump of dust and saliva and approached what looked like a temple. Entablatures and columns now unrecognizable with the decay of time. He tried to imagine who had lived in that legendary and forgotten era, but to his mind it was something foreign.
He sat down on a low wall, took the wrapping out of his bag and ate the cold tamales he had brought with him. As she chewed, a javelina appeared in the heat of the arid, dry background like a mirage of life that she flickered for a moment, indistinct and evanescent like an infant's dream. The man continued to eat and when he finished that meal he stood up, tired of the years and of existence itself and of that nameless world in which he lived. He remembered when he worked on the azoteas of the community of monks, he and the others dressed in tattered and dirty scapulars to hoe and sow and watch the green grow that stood out among the brown and faded colors of those poor lands.
And beyond the walls he remembered the opuntias from which they took the nopal and the cooks who cooked that dish and them who had lunch in the large room and talked and everything then seemed vivid and destined to never end, eternal extension of time and space. And then the General's knights had come to destroy his world and hang the monks and burn everything that caught fire. And he and a few other campesinos had finally found themselves without work, without food, without a roof and had been wandering ever since, custodians of the memories of a life that is no longer and of a time that has already struck its last hour.
He sat down on a low wall, took the wrapping out of his bag and ate the cold tamales he had brought with him. As she chewed, a javelina appeared in the heat of the arid, dry background like a mirage of life that she flickered for a moment, indistinct and evanescent like an infant's dream. The man continued to eat and when he finished that meal he stood up, tired of the years and of existence itself and of that nameless world in which he lived. He remembered when he worked on the azoteas of the community of monks, he and the others dressed in tattered and dirty scapulars to hoe and sow and watch the green grow that stood out among the brown and faded colors of those poor lands.
And beyond the walls he remembered the opuntias from which they took the nopal and the cooks who cooked that dish and them who had lunch in the large room and talked and everything then seemed vivid and destined to never end, eternal extension of time and space. And then the General's knights had come to destroy his world and hang the monks and burn everything that caught fire. And he and a few other campesinos had finally found themselves without work, without food, without a roof and had been wandering ever since, custodians of the memories of a life that is no longer and of a time that has already struck its last hour.