You can't sell a paradise. You can't pave poetry, you can't exchange silence for an "all-inclusive". You can't sell wonder in installments, or undersell the sacred for a handful of clicks. And yet, it is happening. Today the Canary Islands tremble. Not because of the volcanoes, but because of the noise of a tourism that does not listen, that does not look, that only consumes.
Here time used to slow down, now it is measured in check-ins and parking spaces. Because of the heavy footprints of those who enter without knocking, because of the suitcases that roll where dreams used to grow. Before, here, time whispered. Now it runs, steps, wears out. They arrive like locusts with trolleys, photograph the lava without asking its name, sit on the dune as if it were a bench. But the sand does not forget. The rock does not forgive. And the lava... the lava does not know how to defend itself.
César Manrique had already written the future among the volcanoes. He did not build buildings or structures, he sewed the earth to the sky, he built silences, he drew houses that breathe with the earth, he carved art in the volcanic tuff as a promise of love is carved. He dreamed of a utopia of sacred limits, of pauses and respect, of beauty that does not demand, that simply invites. He molded poetry in the landscape, fused respect with architecture, defended Lanzarote as a mother is defended. He dreamed of a utopia made of beauty and measure, of harmony between the human being and nature, of silences more powerful than bulldozers. And yet... beauty is dying of success.
And the beaches are left alone, crying cigarette butts, burying plastic as if it were shame. The trails scream under the tires, the natural reserves are no longer sacred, and the columns of cars reach until sunset. And meanwhile... there are not enough houses for those who really live here, there is not enough water, there is not enough heart, there is not enough poetry. And Lanzarote is still there, in silence. Like a mother who does not stop loving, even wounded.
And then I write. I write barefoot. I write with my hands full of lava and wildflowers. I write because I can no longer be silent. Because valuable things are not sold. They are taken care of. They are caressed. They are honored. May each step be a "thank you". May each trip be a pilgrimage. May each look know how to kneel before so much beauty. Because the Canary Islands are not a destination. They are a prayer.
And Lanzarote... Lanzarote is a poem that only allows itself to be read by those who have a clean heart. It is a verse carved in stone, and each act of carelessness is a line torn away.
