On Monday February 28 Morquencho Mario was in a short film award at the UPC, where he took a short entitled El Burro of Jair Oziel. The text is masterfully written by Mario as a poetic prose. Mario himself who gives voice to the story. The film also features the participation of the talented poet Sandra Enciso and is a fucking bitch Creators production. Here the short and the full text:
away in a landscape of all the colors and the length of boiling asphalt, ride time. rides among the hills and the people. Ride between life and sleep.
Where the abstract flight birds nest, the village breathes the delight of the lady in the dark flower. Where oxen sing, he died deeply in love with the impossible possibility that the oblique brama taciturn people while the gray ash of his body humanized always takes her ...
And the natural haunt for lovers cry, sometimes only sometimes, between two trees have the same woman dancing insoluble blood, the same dream woman ...
And among the thousands crossing heights, she cleans their names and different ... and distant: Forgotten .
lovers Because sometimes have the same life devastated. Because sometimes lovers have the same dead choking. Shared silence. Love so ignored ... and flees each other to be ... to be ... to love not just a piece of vacuum enclosure in the cold heart that trembles and trembles on the back when the day is brighter than the sun. Last
flash day. He walks along the trail and late night calls. Go into it thinking it is a tender condition, walks so well and so badly in love, thinking lost among the cry of the animal domesticated happens.
Behind him, a procession doubt, sheep, oxen and donkeys that repeats crestfallen, is it crossing a mined Jerusalem, with the stubborn and wild need to be with her of exile in the quixotic dream and say that love makes us so wild to think that a couple of adobe houses apart a continent ... And to think that a couple of steps and the large gate open time and life. A couple of steps and land on their hulls below the desire to drag a few more steps to take, urgently, the key from his pocket, introducing light into the eye dark room, opening and closing the intention pluck eyes blurring of dream that opens ...
The eye of infinity notes:
The village, with a poppy hat lies stand in the corner of a country where livestock star fugitive invent a story.
Sitting on the dream dies, he sings from the smiling mountain adventure like the wind as the wind brushes the love that we face.
already in the humble garden of heaven, the village feeding the ducks: cherubim sadly telluric tellurically crazy. She thinks of him. Think like an angel on his wings. So Moon, crackles unfathomable ... and deepens thinking in the small night coming from the hut, his world ...
In the first meeting, the soft grays and warm heart wander from the bell tower seen God: She ahead inciting, with the road attached to the back and wings hidden in the umbrella. Behind him, memorizing the tiny footprints leading home ...
Finished dinner bodies, she tames the howling mad kiss on his lips. He watches still naked in a corner of the house and think deeply so wild What a beautiful flower!
love That's when we communicate, share heart beats in both hands and both hands exploits the communion of the landscape as a planet that is created. Well the sweet chaos, delusional the returns and quick, quick orgasm screaming, wild What a beautiful flower
Then they like water in a single river in the way of hand and he sings ... he has a hidden goldfinch in his hand, has a thousand birds in all their air evaporated:
air flame
soul that names the claims
longing eyes that touch
face the strange ...
soul that names the claims
longing eyes that touch
face the strange ...
The villagers came to his call. He sits beside her. Houses the cold side. Consoles him. She loves him. His silence is a breeze under the tree.
And then leave the lovers. Van recalling, as the forest, hallucinated all colors, and you walk the face late in the final stretch apart almost evaporated, at the same instant the lonely shepherd, between field of screams and dashes hope cattle crosses and florets of defoliating goodbyes nostalgia.
But the village runs the sacred rite as a child tied round the moon. Then the song breaks out the final twilight trailer and dark at the foot of the village cava climax in the air. A solar circle around the tree multiplies and multiplies the need for them to lick the hot stones of love that sometimes the slide, which sometimes dips, which sometimes drowns or is burning, slowly, in the inevitable fire burning chest, pain and bleeding stops blood boiling like perpetual bitter potion or poison ash on the dry grass where the broken hearts bloom ... the dead hearts.
And then all the memories are choked while he, like a statue, lies strewn sadly in the door between the misunderstood and fleeting moment where the eye of infinite defeated by the eyelid falls to a world badly wounded.
Where love is perhaps another word, or hidden in other names, or simply is a constant wound that consumes us daily. Where
perhaps love has no door, lips, mutual rebellion and courage in refusing to cross over. And add to the greeting the missing word on the lips. add another look. add a caress.
Maybe then, just maybe, after walking in this life, the infinite eye return sleep to watch.
The text in bold is what you read in the short
Taken from the blog of Mario: http://sesotrilcico.blogspot.com/
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