A Native to His Homeland

“In the landscape of my native land, a stranger in my own fields–I had a homeland where the Duero flows between gray cliffs and the ghosts of ancient oaks, there in Castile, mystic and warlike, graceful Castile, humble and boastful, Castile of arrogance and power, in the fields of Andalusia where I was born, I long to sing!  My childhood memories are here, images of palm trees and sun against a golden brilliance, distant bell towers with storks, city streets without women under an indigo sky, deserted squares where blazing orange trees ripen with round vermillon fruit, and in a shady garden, the dusty branches of a lemon tree, pale yellow lemons reflected in the clear water of the fountains. The scent of lilies and carnations, pungent odor of basil and mint. Images of gloomy olive groves under a torrid sun that blinds and dazes, winding blue mountan ranges under the red glow of an immense afternoon; but if the thread that links memory to the heart is missing, the anchor to the shore, these memories are soulless.In their ragged dress, they are remnants of memory, castoffs the mind drags along. One day, annnointed with light from below, our virginal bodies will returen to their ancient shore.― Antonio Machado, Campos de Castilla