A fairy tale of sorts
Maruja has left this in the comments. Just this once, I'm speechless. Let her words (and my translation) speak for themselves.
Había una vez una preciosidad. Sus ricitos morenos guardaban un secreto: cada mechón de su pelo conocía una palabra, y por tanto, su abundante cabellera era toda un diccionario. Ello hacia que fuera dicharachera, y que los demás, lejos de reconocer el poder del verbo, se sintieran abrumados con sus disertaciones. A muchos les daba miedo, y era por ello criticada, pero si alguien se paraba a escuchar despacito quedaba encandilado.
El gran poder de sus pociones con las palabras residia en la creación de maravillosas mezclas, que ella mezclaba de forma pausada, tranquila, poco a poco, ...nunca antes el sudor había sido una joya, pero ella conseguía aunarlos, mecerlos y elevarlos a la categoría de poema:
Ninguna joya más hermosa que el sudor.
Es única en el mundo, un pequeño objeto precioso, eterna luchadora, con una visión tan particular del mundo, y está aún por descubrir por sus seres más cercanos.
Posiblemente una cabellera tan excepcional no deja ver una sonrisa tan dulce, posiblemente no entienden el moldeado de sus rizos, y porque se entrelazan generando figuras únicas y ambiguas, o quizás, sienten vergüenza de no saber expresar los golpes de la vida con notas musicales, y han de usar el verbo. Ninguna música más hermosa que el impacto.
Once upon a time there was a beauty. Her little dark curls kept a secret: each ringlet knew a word, and because of this, her abundant hair was quite a dictionary. That made her talkative, and others, far from recognising the power of the Word, were overwhelmed by her speeches. Many were scared of her, and criticised her for this reason, but if anyone ever stopped to listen, they were enthralled.
The great power of her word potions was in the creation of wonderful mixtures, that she stirred slowly, gently, little by little... never had sweat been a jewel before, but she could put them together, cradle them and lift them to the categpry of poem:
no jewels like beads of sweat.
She's unique, a little, beautiful object, eternal fighter, with such a special worldview, still undiscovered by those closest to her.
It is very likely that such exceptional hair doesn't let others notice the sweetest smile, they probably don't understand the shape of her curls, because they entwine creating ambiguous, unique patterns, or maybe, they are ashamed because they cannot express life's troubles with musical notation, and must use words.
No music like a body against a mat.
1 comentario
maruja de pro -
Thanks