Now that it is fashionable to speak of an empty Spain, far from the Sunday politics that, on the eve of elections, offers such miraculous solutions as the way in which Jesus Christ multiplied the loaves and fishes in the famous weddings of Canaan, it is good to take a retrospective look and direct our gaze towards those towns that irremediably spoil us, the eyes of their inhabitants tired of looking without seeing, as the good man, the poet Antonio Machado, said.

Continuing with him and remembering, moreover, some of those melancholic verses that spoke of the ephemeral past - or if you prefer, with more libertinage, of the snows of yesteryear to which Villon toasted with the rancid wine of the taverns of the dusty French roads - I want to give myself the pleasure, even if it is not really good for anything, to show them one of those charming little Castilian villages, which after surviving a millennium - as demonstrated by its beautiful Romanesque church - its vitality was cruelly absorbed by the false Eldorado of progress and that lack of perspectives that in present-day Spain, has that metaphorical earthly hairdressing salon, known as Agriculture.

In the confines of Guadalajara, at the foot of the imposing and always feared Sierra de Pela - already its name indicates it, because in winter the cold, you can believe it, it peels to the marrow of the bones - the contemplation of Villacadima - that already in its name and in the execution of its magnificent church, has castizas roots Andalusíes or mudéjares, if they prefer it- implies to feel in the throat the cold hands of the Parca, torn the chest and reached the heart, by the impassive dagger of the Lamia of the depopulation.

And is that, call me a visionary or a dreamer, even practically in ruins, the vision of this people, worthy representative of that Spain that is emptied -as the medieval sailors used to think that the sea was emptied beyond the Columns of Hercules- produces a state of neurotic tenderness in me, product, not only of the famous Stendhal syndrome, which could be claimed just by contemplating the delicious artistic curiosities of his church, but of that other syndrome, much more heartbreaking and in the background frightening, which the extraordinary poet Gabriel Celaya already called the Byzantium syndrome: the inexorable passage of time.

WARNING: Both the text and the accompanying photographs are my exclusive intellectual property.

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[Martial, latin poet]

Ars vtinam more Animvm qve effingere. Posses pulchrior in ter. Ris nvlla tabella foret.

Arte Ojala pudieras representar. el carácter y el espíritu. No habría sobre la tierra. Imagen más bella

@Tximeleta tiene nuevos retos.
Toca la imagen y participa.
Diviértete y disfruta.

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