Some Words
They are too dense to be leaves. So arched and sharp, and green with that chlorophyll that dyes spinach the cloaks and liturgical objects of Islam, so brazen and warlike, they are not leaves but sabers, swords, scimitars, and lances of a multitude of warriors gathered on this piece of land. They are banners of clans of boys with wolf’s teeth. Standards of feverish young preachers. Flutes of neoplatonic witches dressed in Nasrid silk, accompanied by their lover children. When Hugo approaches the multitude, and his gaze falls on one or a few subjects, this identity becomes even more evident. Bare shoulders. The thin chest twisted. A mad look. And cheeks of ice purple. The lullabies turn into lullabies of boys to boys and then rise until they break into screams. And the mother? Where were you, mother?
It does not matter whether the gathering takes place in Asturias or in the plains of Northern Morocco. Whether the members of the tribe have been mowed down or tormented by a plow. The warriors of the camp are daughters and sons of bulbs and rhizomes. They are the ones, the horde of wild irises that has finally gathered and is finally beginning the reconquest of the world.