They are going to kill a groundbreaking story of love and openness between a tree and a wall, before the astonished eyes of the world.
I was a child in you, and in you I camouflaged myself against bishops and Francos. You saved my spirit, you were my pontiff with what they hid. Invisible for so many years. I was in you, ant, beetle, lizard, monkey, child, bird. Evolution. I am skin of your bark, skeleton of your trunk, audacity of your crown. Intelligence of your roots. With them I listened to the whispers in the great sad house and learned what happens with the human condition when it is severely conditioned. Aligned.
I told you the joy of my sins. The forbidden movies, the concerns of my sexuality.
I learned to stay a child until I found my Chinijo in the world. And I found him and there was another like you, the loneliest on the planet.
And I recognized you and went down to the cistern where he submerged his very fine roots and it was my tunnel with life to the beyond. No, not the one from the great sad house. The one I keep in me. There, in that cistern that accesses the water by some stairs, (the opposite of going up to the pulpit). There inside, among the roots, hanging from its walls and its mystical and pure water, imbued by my smell of old dry things, naked, I perceived, now I know, the subtle force, but unavoidable, like gravity, of time between Eras. Pisces of salt, Aquarius of oxygen.
That circle that writes the axis of the planet in the firmament, and that they place on the heads of their saints, and they no longer know why.
I am like you, humidity, shadow, shelter from the tremendous sterilizing sun of worldly appearances.
I think I started to know the Aleph in the white sphere that always accompanies you, your inseparable, your opposite form.
In it I discovered others, from the world, from being in the world. I am like you, always outside waiting for those inside, but with deep roots in the Reef.
Now that they want to kill us, they will kill themselves. They are not even capable of hearing the origins of their beliefs in the music of the spheres, nor the song of life in the wise dignity of the tree. Is there any madman who would think that Caesar would prioritize his work to the tree? Do not doubt that he would see the beauty in that copulation of form.
Then they will enter the great sad house to ask for forgiveness or in the bottle or in the vulgar and simple line. Without destiny or signal. Or, they will celebrate the coup.
I'm going to say it, I don't like doing this, but I'm going to say it: They will not cut down a tree, they will cut their blood!
The colonialist philosopher said: "to be is to be perceived."
I say: "To be is to Be". The great sphere. Where the verb and the noun give meaning to the exploration. They touch, they take turns, they put themselves first, they exchange, they embrace. Always on the axis, IS.
It is not being, the line, the bottle or the false forgiveness. Nor neglect, nor oblivion, nor the intention of the function. To be is to Be.
Ah! My name is Gines. Now Ginesito.
And I say that it is not: "Eras are perceived Eras". That is not colonialist. Therefore, everything is in relation to everything. In time and space. If I lose the relationship with that tree, I will be invisible. Those who participate in the cut will never see me again, if they see me, it will be a mirage and mirages do not count.
I am at peace. I always lived thinking and feeling that all those who have already left have access to the most hidden of my thoughts. Even the marrano priest, who slapped me for nothing, has access. That is my conscience. And with it and from it I do the action.
