NO FUTURE IN THE heart of the Ribeira Sacra
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Tobacco Test In Urine
Saturday Morning marzas , sudden rain curtains that hide the sun flying over the landscape in parallel helpless. We protect the windows of time and observe the fragility of a few drops of water that fool our eyes, great moments the illusion that detracts from the snowy petals of the cherry blossom. Before eating and tasting the wine, blood of these lands that the Romans and also enjoyed Cenobites, we toured the vineyards and the beds ready to receive the new planting, the winery still calm, the fourth of the tools which doze forgotten the old chestnut and wicker baskets, old trap and detention of such listed eels, proud abandoned silos that stored the cement needed for the construction of hydroelectric dams, the loneliness of the train station, the banks of Cave where a lone fisherman try their luck with reeds, the nearby slopes of Sober, a stone's throw, savvy from their slumber by a dog, palleiras challenger that barked at the gray clouds rain lend to give birth. Became extinct decades ago tasty crayfish. By soaking the field leaving the hens ran to seek refuge in her back yard and our time went quiet. Before twilight, we look to our gracious hosts the memories of all those vintages and fisheries, labored train travel weary rocked by the rattle of the veteran locomotives, daily feast of plums and trout. We stay silent behind the house that still await the return of the bustle and laughter of children.
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