Stories by BELÉN BOVILLE
There once was a blind, poor old man,
his music lit up his face,
he always seemed happy.
The dry air breathed through his instrument,
A Spanish goat’s horn that sent
sweet music down the valleys.
Peasants came to him with flowers and fruits,
and the birds brought diamonds and rubies,
and the forest animals pieces of gold and small emeralds
that glittered around him, fastened on each note.
His horn of plenty filled
every corner with harmony and prosperity.
Nothing else was needed.
El Montgó tore itself off from Xàbia,
to play with the Pine Islands,
the islands of almond trees and sea snails.
It rained for a hundred days and a hundred nights
while the gods made up their minds whether to let the island sail free
or be moored to the land.
A bolt of thunder ruptured the waters and the god of the sea
rose among the rocks,
dragging the wayward mountain
and a shoal of tuna and galleys, crab and shells
that glittered like stars.
The olive trees opened up
and the sea glided between the gravel and the stones.
And there it was left. Rooted.
In the night of time
the oboe and the lute glanced at each other gloomily
and a tambourine suddenly was prancing around.
All the sane abandoned their lethargy, drunk with dance.
The old warrior stood up and hopped around.
Armoured behind his old lemon-quartz shield
he shook the old insect carapace that he had become.
He laughed at those that stared at his quirkiness,
trapped in their own spider webs,
blinded with dreams.