Wednesday, 8 December 2010

It is done. This time we could not save him. It had to be cut. Insurance reasons, they told us. On Friday, 3rd December, I stand at our French doors and witness the ritual. The music we play understands the mood, a symphony from the new world, Hanaq pachap kusikuynin.

His body is stripped away, his open arms broken, mutilated. This old eucalyptus is resigned to its fate and it is Holy Friday in my heart, not Advent.

This old friend welcomed us when we arrived to this new city. Eucalyptus was the tree my father loved so much, to us, a reminder of his soul. And on this tree we wrote our initials in a heart.

As Marie collects some branches for Christmas flowers, frantically Paquito bites and chews a branch as if he is trying to wake up the fallen guardian. It is in vain, life has gone. It is a funeral of sorts, a scattering of branches and memories from our garden.

Goodbye my friend. You will be born again in other trees. In a few weeks time a new friend will be planted in his place. It will be a Rowan Tree.

A Tree from Wales.

" Ese hombre es como un arbol..."

Yo dibuje arboles
y fui diestro
solo los contemplo

He visto arboles
que crecen
y nadie lo nota
que mueren
y nadie lo sabe

He visto arboles
de todo tiempo
grandes y pequeños
fragiles y fuertes
sabios y necios

He visto arboles
luchar por su vida
enfrentar al viento
resistir la lluvia
soportar el sol

He visto arboles
llorar desnudos
bajo la luz de la luna

He visto arboles
ahora lo recuerdo
morir arrancados
de su suelo

Con carboncillo y lapiz
dibuje muchos arboles
tambien con tinta y color
pero en ninguno
deje grabado
el recuerdo
de un amor

Quiero morir
contemplando un arbol
quiero morir
como un arbol

a ponerme
de pie...

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