There we spent many days, its old streets of stones moldy by the years, there is a great distance from the big city to those spaces loaded with immemorial times, in them so many histories have been kept, its people, its traditions, its green mountains, the river, the boys playing in the free spaces and it is that when speaking of freedom the towns seem to go ahead.

Women with their colorful dresses crossing the roads quickly, their work beasts tied to the trunk of an old tree, the man returning from the hard work with the hoe on his back and his faithful dog preceding his steps between stones and flowers, these are the people who live there, in their blue-roofed houses with mud walls and infinite times where history has been made, between silence and the sound of rains.

Sometimes we ask ourselves...who started this story, how were born these villages that have inherited their silence from time?...We answer ourselves, these villages are the result of the walking man, one day after a long journey, he stopped his tired steps, he observed the stone, observed the palm, observed the river and wanted to stop there, after building the hut there was much to do.

To go to other towns, to walk, to approach, to talk, to sing the sower's songs and to conquer a love, a love that will become a companion, a wife, a friend, with her he will have children, formed in the fertile and loving womb, there they arrive one after the other and also become part of the land, of the sowing, of the flower, of the charm of the humble and colorful towns nestled between mountains.

That is the town that we are now preparing to leave, the town that sows its children in a space where the crosses are losing their names, where the years are counted by the rains and the moons of January, a town where the elders worship and the teachers sing songs accompanied by guitar, a town that looks at the traveler and gives him the best of them...their smiles.

From here we are leaving, we do not take forgetfulness with us, we leave our faith to return and our steps between the stones of its streets, we take with us the friendship of those who accompanied us in the simple days, the work of the artisan and the song of those who cross mountains while in their hands they make the fruit be born.

To return is always a hope and this one is not lost as we go from town to town.

Thank you all for reading my post.