The village (La aldea)

Here is another tribute to Cornejo, the tiny town where Dad grew up before the times of electricity, telephones or television. A simple life with, as he called them, minuscule dreams, when the joy of attending the Sunday mass with all the family and later a bath in the river, together with a barbeque with all the neighbours, were the highlights of the week.

From my Dad’s book Commemorations (Conmemoraciones). Photo from http://www.panoramio.com/photo/5605408

The village (La aldea)

Cornejo

Two dozens of modest houses aligned

on both sides of the road.

The orderly rows expanded parallel

and used to disappear, every now and then,

in the dusty path of the vehicles

with hasty destination always beyond the main square,

far away from the servants

who barely had the chance to wave at the travellers.

The main street branched out from that whirlwind

and took an oblique path like if it was heading to the river.

It would take a detour to then peep out of any small alley

onto the organised symmetry of the huts along the road.

Ranches were built on the abandoned savannahs.

Nature surrendered to tin walls,

roofs made of straw

and cardboard doors.

The house master proclaimed his territory, made this public,

felt his roots growing deeper, planted to his tenured land,

prepared to fertilise bitterness and honey in his ground,

under the sun, at night,

his life immovable.

Each neighbour, stranger to the rest,

invented their own craft

as a way to keep their hands and thoughts busy.

From the rustic loom came out the hemp sacks,

the sleeping mats and the whipping-tops.

And others made ceramics

or clay tiles and bricks,

fired on consecutive candle nights

accompanied by a guitar, a flute,

‘Fiery water’ spirits and women,

everything lit up with the light

of the combustion in the ovens.

others had fishing nets

and made the waning moon keep them company

to try their luck upstream,

retelling legends that are usually born

in the confluence of night and rivers.

The waned light

gave the town a sad tone.

Later in the afternoon people leaned stools

against the main doors,

and lit up a cigar and their spirits.

Into the night

they would retire, to rest in the intimacy

of their minuscule dreams

accompanied by the nearby

music of the river.