a.venicioarmin
My grandmother was traveling by train, ..... that today they don't have their destinations. I imagine these routes, taking souls in search of love encounters, ....
My grandmother was traveling by train, ..... that today they don't have their destinations. I imagine these routes, taking souls in search of love encounters, ... that they were waiting for at some station. Children in search of their identity, ... lonely spirits in search of dream destinations. I refuse to see these dead rails. For my grandmother, for the souls that did not achieve the desired encounter, for small towns, which ceased to exist. I resist that policies, which should be for the common good, have destroyed the dreams of thousands of people. They were planned trips, they were sounds of metallic friction that numbed minds, but beautifully. The arrival at each station was accompanied by the whistle of those characters, with their uniform, warning the arrival. The bell that gave the exit to a new destination. Encounters, hugs, goodbyes, endless kisses. All that was killed for every kilometer they destroyed. A dead road, is a story, that does not die in it, they live in the hearts, of those who still, keep the memories, of the platforms, sometimes full and sometimes with only one person, for my grandmother that person, was his great love, your love that secretly, I manage to hold for 20 years. They were different times, but no less romantic. The train was his refuge, rather his trip was to meet the desired.
they will never die. Many souls, already in flight, .. They still travel on these rails.
Mi abuela viajaba en trenes,..... que hoy no tienen sus destinos. Me imagino estas rutas, llevando almas en busca de encuentros amorosos,... que esperaban en alguna estación. Niños en busca de su identidad,... espíritus solitarios en busca de destinos soñados. Me niego a ver estos rieles muertos. Por mi abuela, por las almas que no lograron el deseado encuentro, por pueblitos, que dejaron de existir. Me resisto que políticas, que debieran ser para el bien común, hayan destruido, los sueños de miles de personas. Eran viajes planeados, eran sonidos de metálicas roces, que adormecían las mentes, pero bellamente. La llegada a cada estación, era acompañada por el silbato de esos personajes, con su uniforme, avisando la llegada. La campana que daba la salida a un nuevo destino. Encuentros, abrazos, despedidas, besos interminables. Todo eso mataron por cada kilómetro que destruyeron. Una vía muerta, es una historia, que no muere en ella, viven en los corazones, de quienes todavía, guardan los recuerdos, de los andenes, a veces llenos y a veces con una sola persona, para mi abuela esa persona, fue su gran amor, su amor que en secreto, logro sostener por 20 años. Fueron épocas diferentes, pero no por ello menos románticas. El tren era su refugio, mejor dicho era su viaje al encuentro de lo deseado.
My grandmother was traveling by train, ..... that today they don't have their destinations. I imagine these routes, taking souls in search of love encounters, ....
My grandmother was traveling by train, ..... that today they don't have their destinations. I imagine these routes, taking souls in search of love encounters, ... that they were waiting for at some station. Children in search of their identity, ... lonely spirits in search of dream destinations. I refuse to see these dead rails. For my grandmother, for the souls that did not achieve the desired encounter, for small towns, which ceased to exist. I resist that policies, which should be for the common good, have destroyed the dreams of thousands of people. They were planned trips, they were sounds of metallic friction that numbed minds, but beautifully. The arrival at each station was accompanied by the whistle of those characters, with their uniform, warning the arrival. The bell that gave the exit to a new destination. Encounters, hugs, goodbyes, endless kisses. All that was killed for every kilometer they destroyed. A dead road, is a story, that does not die in it, they live in the hearts, of those who still, keep the memories, of the platforms, sometimes full and sometimes with only one person, for my grandmother that person, was his great love, your love that secretly, I manage to hold for 20 years. They were different times, but no less romantic. The train was his refuge, rather his trip was to meet the desired.
they will never die. Many souls, already in flight, .. They still travel on these rails.
Mi abuela viajaba en trenes,..... que hoy no tienen sus destinos. Me imagino estas rutas, llevando almas en busca de encuentros amorosos,... que esperaban en alguna estación. Niños en busca de su identidad,... espíritus solitarios en busca de destinos soñados. Me niego a ver estos rieles muertos. Por mi abuela, por las almas que no lograron el deseado encuentro, por pueblitos, que dejaron de existir. Me resisto que políticas, que debieran ser para el bien común, hayan destruido, los sueños de miles de personas. Eran viajes planeados, eran sonidos de metálicas roces, que adormecían las mentes, pero bellamente. La llegada a cada estación, era acompañada por el silbato de esos personajes, con su uniforme, avisando la llegada. La campana que daba la salida a un nuevo destino. Encuentros, abrazos, despedidas, besos interminables. Todo eso mataron por cada kilómetro que destruyeron. Una vía muerta, es una historia, que no muere en ella, viven en los corazones, de quienes todavía, guardan los recuerdos, de los andenes, a veces llenos y a veces con una sola persona, para mi abuela esa persona, fue su gran amor, su amor que en secreto, logro sostener por 20 años. Fueron épocas diferentes, pero no por ello menos románticas. El tren era su refugio, mejor dicho era su viaje al encuentro de lo deseado.