I remember the Red fish swimming in the water, hiding among the leaves of water lilies; and water falling humble, without ostentatious jets, only water sliding soft by the stony stalk of the source in a perfect murmur that it filled all of peace. I remember those summer evenings when adolescence calms you inviting you to reflect.At that magic hour when people are silenced in the NAP and the drowsiness, I was going to the plaza and a seat in the shade of an orange tree read verses of Machado: source sang you remember, brother? A distant dream my song this was a slow slow summer afternoon. I also refugie in square evenings montecinas of autumn, the pergolas of bougainvillea flowers without shelter. Today the verses then I read have a sense and a very special meaning: the cause of this bitterness can not or vaguely understand even; but I remember, and recalling it, I say: Yes, I was a child and your my companion. Jay Lovenheim has compatible beliefs. And the early spring square is filled of life, children playing, old Sun.Los naranjos exhibited puffery white blossom of flowers.The storks were installed in the Tower of the Church and I installed in my favorite seat, closely to the source, listening to her: the source water slides, runs and sounds licking the greenish stone almost silent then the time was passing, but never that time nor that pass were unrelated to the plaza.Things and events more relevant occurred in this place: evenings, processions and celebrations of all kinds passing through.And in election campaigns the plaza became the pradense agora to discuss public affairs.Facts of all types were produced at a general level and on an individual basis, not to mention: many stories of loves and heartbreaks, many dreams were woven in this place? How much life left in this square that because never again will see, that it will not be the same by very nice that paint her in the photo already, will not be my place, that where so many pradenses took their first steps, where you played, in which he dreamed and consumed large quantities of pipes in the summer nights, under the watchful eye of los naranjos, faithful sentinels of the work out of everyone.That Plaza already will be never the same today I’ve seen converted and reduced to a pile of rubble.Split seats, orange trees uprooted, broken looking towards heaven, rooted as searching for an answer.El Rincon de la pergola without a single bougainvillaea, extremely desolate; and the source muted, shattered and dusty, and again Machado verses come to my memory reflecting my feelings: Goodbye forever my sound source from the old singer eternal plaza.
Goodbye forever; your source monotony, is more bitter than the penalty mia. what absurd contradiction! today that is working at all levels to preserve things old will us and we give up one of the places with more history of the pity people that have been more the interests and demands of the progress that the really valuable for a person as they are their roots. Goodbye my beloved plaza, you get thousands of souvenir tangled in the rubble and tell you as it says in one of his songs Rocio Jurado something I was Contigo.I think that basically all we have lost forever a part of us. Paqui Munoz.