Fires
The flames are advancing at a fiendish speed. It is the movement of rage out of control. The ritual of death. A dangerous dance that does not measure its steps, that sweeps away everything in front of it. From the nearest towns you can see these strong colours, as vivid as the death they cause, as beautiful as they are destructive. The sky loses its radiant blue and turns blacker and blacker. The smell is also carried by the wind. This mixture of so many things. Too many things. All in one loss.
High temperatures that also bring a treacherous air that seems to conspire to make it more difficult than it already is. There is no turning back. There is no consolation. Lamentations are of no use. The older ones, those who spend hours in the bowels of these fields, know that the threat of fire exists, it is there, it looms to be seen... until it is fulfilled. They, those who have grown up and understand the language of the sierras, know that disaster is not always a surprise. That is why pain is mixed with impotence.
They burn, our forests burn, in the region of La Mancha, and in Extremadura, and in Galicia, and in Andalusia, and in Valencia, in the other Castilian region, and in the islands... They burn leaving in their wake black carpets and loneliness, personal stories that dry up to tears.
The existence of high temperatures is true, but even truer is the need to take care of our mountains. They are the ones who, in cold and heat, look after their crops and animals, look for food, explore the secrets of the forests, know the land where they live... they are the ones who know that there is no single culprit, that heat burns, yes, but so do the matches that men light. The figures show that in 96% of cases man is behind it. That there have always been arsonists, that there are, and that they will continue to be. That fire also speaks, that the spots where they are produced betray, that the hand hides the word guilt... With conscience, by negligence.
They, those who want their fields clean, also know that they are not. That in order to prevent the flames from being synonymous with great tragedies, money must be invested which, sometimes, is destined for great unreason. That it is necessary to clear the brush. That the fire would not spread so violently if it found a firebreak in its path, those strips without vegetation that would provide some respite. That if the villages of rural Spain feel abandoned... so do their landscapes. The before would prevent or calm an after.
They seem to be getting a grip. Until the next one. But this hot summer will pass and autumn will arrive with its beautiful colours. The fires will be forgotten, those who died because of them, the hectares razed to the ground, thousands and thousands, the animals turned to ashes, the burnt houses... We will forget so many futures lost in that other present that will already be a past. The fires will disappear from the news while each person affected will struggle against their new and wintry loneliness.