1 view 15 comments posted 28 May 2012, 13:12
My hometwon was, for many decades in the earlier 20th century, a huge industrialized spot, receiving raw material and exporting to the country and the world the manufactured products. The cork transformation industry came mainly from there.
That small urban town are shapped in dark corners with crumbled, faded walls, beautiful solitary abandon places, wavy smoke of some few facturies, old timer industrial arquitecture and railway tracks, all over the place, like someone finger nails on the attempt of crawl out from there, furrowed the land.
I know very well that magical feeling about abandoned railway tracks, like veins in the land.
Every leaf of grass had a story to tell, every nettle made an imprudent hand hurt, the undiscribable bugs that come under those heavy bars of iron, made be often step back and them forward with curiosity, to follow their speedy but rather instable run.
Still come to mind, closing my eyes, the mixed smell of rosemary and rust, the joy to see the thistle exploding in green and purple, the red dots of the poppies and the yellow of the dandelion, floating away so high when got their transparent body and cotton little feet, dancing round and around, in an invisible dance floor, heading to an unrevealed destination.
It was a portal leading to adventure... even today some of the tracks are there, others gone away leaving behind their straight scars of mud and grass like little crooked rivers when the rain come, unveil wounds that have not yet healed.
But near the river all changes, the white explodes like a diamond field; here and there the sea tide mills brings us back in time.
The boats, dancing in the waves, in their incessant ant like life, sail the radiant blue playing with the sun and the foam, or with the lead of a stormy clowdy day, always carry people from here to there, never asking way things are the way they are.
Rain drops, season goes one after the other, the fog still leads you to a world made of cold and wet cotton candy, on the winter mornings, making you walk like in smog trails.
Occasionally, the heavy rain after giving you chills and a running cold nose, a raiwbow is there when you lift your eyelashes, it's a gift that make you forget the rest.
Sudenlly is May, and is June and the dandelion are fleeting away with their cotton feet, the poppies teach you what red is all about, the vibrante thistles make you think about tiny wedding fairys bouquets, and all the songs that you want to sing.
The layers of the dusk colors make you hate the dark, but the smeel of pine wood, and rosemary tangled in the river breeze, take you to the land when dreams are waiting for you.
And all this sensations catapul your soul into so many feelings, like when light defracts as a caleidoscope, pulling your eyes into every litlle detail.
You always remember that perfect feeling, when you fall asleep in the warm sun in the beach and open your eyes and the world is made of pure bright blue.
And that feeling makes you wish you never have to grow old.
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