We leave behind
The tractor´s parade, coming in and out town, dancing, one by one , leaving behind that smell, unmistakeble, to smashed grapes.
We leave behind
That dog, lagging behing, partner, friend and witness of the reached farm work.
We leave behind
Women, with a shawl in their head, bent down, perfumed with romero and lavanda, their faces, weather-beaten by the winter cold , their mothers, right there, rest in peace.
Their teethless mouths, their run away looks, their wounded hands, and still, threre is no time for rest.
Now
The village, at La Mancha, is changing, hard to distinguish between summer people, retired, Acisclo´s son, Kuki´s brother or Aunt Benancia.
We don´t know if the came to stay, or if they didn´t leave because of fear from moving.
But this ” El Pueblo”, this is La Mancha, Here, we still are loyal to the morning cold, to the rain stars, to the morning gossip.
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