Osorno

A door is painted by Indians Osorno, a poem carved huddled yesterday waiting to be read by those who will come tomorrow, a place of green fields and gentle black skins, whose baggage train waiting on the platform with stones that stand to remind also the sound of the drum came through the rivers, forests grow innocent die every day in the hands of men undermined by the advance of progress. A white sky, blue and red, accented in September as in any piece of Chile, but here is enhanced with four good! During the dive master of the bull. Thus Osorno, a place where we grow the corn under the pressure of an elusive sun between summer rainfall, where the hands boqui weave, wicker and dye raw wool in copihue adorning the mantle of women huilliche . The "pangue? growing of food, chilcos beside the road, the red paint notro the spell. Even bullock carts up and down the traditions, music, games of this muddy earth that cradles me.

Osorno, bedroom colonies coming from far away, concocted identity and are a balance between the "delicatessen? and "milcao greaves?, between the hut and larch German house unchallenged. Here embrace blackbirds, between days of steps urbanized or extreme adventure to find the altar of "Tata Huentellao?. Where the inertia of winter Bruges makes them appear like this that he writes ... while the angels are hiding in houses where the other kneeling looking for answers, poverty, injustice, hunger, silence ... Here where the cows are not sacred, they are the ones calves, breeding, nursing, and share the sacred line of our lives. So I see this Osorno, between seas and castles, between crowds and the usual suspects, fighting for balance. Here is where queltehue his kingdom and the parallel 40 South blesses the seaweed in winter, yes, here where the myrtle is known only among the Swiss chocolate, the muday, seafood casserole or ... This is "me? place where I belong, my parents were born here, my children, my grandchildren do not know ... meanwhile, I write without rhetoric for you, you know, who know of this cradle is also yours, a city that desire is the result of the embrace sincere communion in their affections, where tomorrow can see their faces in this loom that has no name, but I have dubbed "cyber loom?.

I leave your table, tastes and smells of this photograph rain-soaked January, down on the "close the gap?. Breathe, feel for the day there will be no more borders and the sky is One and your son and my sheltered in the shade of the trees, to discuss the chimeras of their children's children ... Jacqueline Lagos. OSORNO