Remembering Osorno

South Osorno, a place where we grow corn under the pressure of an elusive sun between summer rainfall, where hands bouquet weave, wicker and dye raw wool in copious adorning the mantle of women hilliness. The "panga" is growing food, chilies beside the road, the red paint notch the spell. Even ox carts up and down the traditions, music, games of muddy earth that cradles me. Osorno, bedroom colonies coming from far away, we plotted identity and a balance between the "delicatessen" and "greaves milcaos are added, between the hut and the house unchallenged German larch. Here they embrace the blackbirds, between days of steps urbanized or extreme adventure to find the altar of "Tata Huentellao." Where does the inertia of winter appear Bruges who write like this … while the angels are hiding in houses where other knees looking for the answers, misery, injustice, hunger, silence … Here where the cows are not sacred, they are to stop, breeding, nursing, and share the sacred line of our lives. So I see this Osorno, between sea and castle, between crowds and the usual suspects, fighting for balance.

Here is where the Queltehue has his kingdom and the parallel 40 South blesses the seaweed in winter, yes, here where the myrtle is known only between the Swiss chocolate, the muday, casserole or seafood … This is "my" place, where I belong, my parents were born here, my children, my grandchildren do not know … meanwhile, I write without rhetoric to you, you know, who know of this crib is also yours, a city desire is the product of sincere hug, communion in their affections, where tomorrow can see their faces in this loom that has no name, but I have dubbed "Cyber loom." I leave at your table, tastes and smells of the rain-soaked photography in January, down on the "catch up". Breathe, feel for the day there will be no more borders and the sky will be One and your son and mine sheltered in the shade of the trees, discussing the chimeras of the children of their children..