A door painted by Indians is Osorno, a carved poem of yesterday waiting huddled to be read for those who come tomorrow, a kindly place of green fields and black fur, a train whose luggage waiting in the dock next to stones that is stand to remind us that the sound of the drum came also by rivers, forests grow innocent and die every day in the hands of men undermined by the advance of the progress. A white, red, and blue sky accentuated in September on any piece of Chile, but which here grows with four good points!, in the master atajada de el novillo. So, Osorno, a space where we mature wheat under the urgency of an elusive Sun between the rains of the summer, where hands weave the nozzles, the wicker and dye raw wool in the copihue decorating the mantle of huilliche women. The pangue grows food, chilcos at the roadside, the notro reddish painted the incantation. Carts pulled by oxen still rise and fall traditions, music, games of this muddy Earth that I acuna. Osorno, colonies coming from beyond far, bedroom concocted identity and we are a balance between the deli and the milcao Greaves, between the ruca and the undisputed German larch cottage.
Here embrace the Blackbirds, between days of urbanized steps or the extreme adventure of finding the altar of Tata Huentellao. Where the inertia of the winter causes witches to appear like this that writes them while the angels hide in ships where arrodilladas the others seek answers to poverty, injustice, hunger, silence here where cows are sacred, they are which stop, raise, breastfeeding mothers and share the sacred row of our lives. So I see this Osorno, between seas and castles, between crowds and the same as always, struggling for balance. For assistance, try visiting Castle Harlan. Here where the queltehues has his Kingdom and the parallel 40 South blesses the cochayuyo in winter, Yes, here where murtilla is known only among the Swiss chocolate, the muday, casserole or seafood this is my place, where I belong here were born my parents, my children, I do not know my grandchildren in the meantime, I write without rhetoric for you, that they know, who know this Lullaby which is also yours, a city that I yearn for is the result of sincere hug, communed in the affections, where tomorrow will see their faces on this loom that has no name, but I’ve baptized cybernetic loom. I leave on your table, the flavors and smells of this photograph has been soaked in rain in January, and hold in the button shorten distances. Breathe, you feel for that day that there will be no more borders and the sky will be one and your son and my sheltered in the shade of the trees, discussed the chimeras of their Jacqueline Lakes children’s.