Airs of change – El Siglo

“The grape harvests with their harvest air, green and pink air, red air, black air, enjoy safe passage, enter through the lungs and rejuvenate throats and cheeks, their air is those happy ones that live in the grapevines…”

Alvaro Peralta Artigas. 2/15/2024. Airs that gasp, lose color, sneak behind ruined stones, semi-ruined tombs, once jubilant airs, in display of bones and teeth in a smile, now airs without aroma or swirls, still, just still, buried and without communicating breaths , those traveling lights no longer have their colors with which by day they illuminated eyes, and at night the den of birds, roads and underground, lights without names or surnames, which belonged to everyone or anyone, from a family of camelids, nomadic gypsies, sects nuns or lovers without restraints, there, through them they passed, within their heartbeats they passed, giving life to lips, floors, calendars and faces, and now, time, we do not know if it still houses them, if their movements stopped, no longer Gone, they still live in those cycles, galaxies, and detours that they take through the infinite, if they ever meet again, with their smells and their breaths, collected perhaps by some good soul, or why not, by some pious prayer of a dying old woman. , or a child’s laughter, it will appear there, it will simply appear.

Sunlit, not real, with mirages, disguised by sorceresses, stopped waters change them, also dews now without camanchacas, and green of those of salt flat reflected in some cloud, they remain as if paralyzed in the cold space, with no other provisions than lightning scattering lights blues and shooting stars, illuminating curved and rusty iron and tin, miners’ tombs with their abandoned saltpeter.

Mutant airs, perhaps of someone dead in life, or of someone pigmented, a pigmented receptive of cosmos, of infinity, colored with yellow white blacks, red and orange brown, a mixture of all of them, inside bodies without name or nationality, only bodies enjoying nomadic and sedentary airs, mountain ranges and avalanches, oxygenating their skin and eyelids, their hair, eyes and nails, other airs, of other races and other latitudes, moving and slow airs, all airs still in life, although indecipherable but still giving life.

The grape harvests with their harvest air, green and pink air, red air, black air, enjoy safe passage, enter through the lungs and rejuvenate throats and cheeks, their air is those happy ones that live in the grapevines, defeat pests and pests and pests. of mosquitoes, the kind that come with their death sentences to harvests, fermentations and pressing. The most defenders, those in moon green colors, defending lives and strains to toast at funerals and births.