Burning stars of nostalgia

Burning one of my many stars of nostalgia, as that noble poet of the roads once said, whose perseverance and wise objectivity earned him the laurels of the Nobel Prize, the beloved teacher, Hermann Hesse, comes to mind today - and I want to take advantage of it, before, with the same speed, it disappears forever - one of those singular scenarios, that, when I was just a boy who began to feel an atrocious hunger in life and saw the world as a succulent chocolate cake, made me dream of impossible stories, offering me, in passing, the bitter fruit of the temptation by the supernatural: that languid monastery, of forgotten memories, existential dramas and terrifying legends, which, inexorably anchored to the flow of the slow current of a river, the Duero, continues to watch life pass by with monotonous languor.

Dedicated to the figure of that symbolic thunder of a solstice, the summer solstice, which we already practically have around the corner, is that of Saint John, a monastery that combines, in its long existence, the details of two codes, the artistic and literary, far from repelling each other, like the equal poles of a magnet, complement each other, in the manner of a Yin and a Yang, becoming a metaphorical Ouroboros, in which fiction and reality, making the assertion good of Shakespeare that there are more things in heaven and on earth than our imagination can dream of, gave rise, at the sickly hand of a Becquer, whose life was already about to reach the twilight of the just, to one of the most beautiful, although terrifying legends, which, regardless of the inexorable passage of time, have remained indelible in the memory of men: 'The Mountain of Souls'.

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