the silence bears the weight
in the dim stillness of la misericòrdia in palma, where the grand processions of semana santa begin their solemn march, i stood quietly in the corner. the scent of incense clung to the air. a hooded figure, faceless and serene, emerged from the shadows, clutching a towering cross adorned in gold. this wasn’t just ritual – it was reverence in motion. tradition whispered through every fold of his robe, through every echoing footstep in the courtyard. i didn’t ask for permission. i witnessed. i remembered.
the silence bears the weight
in the dim stillness of la misericòrdia in palma, where the grand processions of semana santa begin their solemn march, i stood quietly in the corner. the scent of incense clung to the air. a hooded figure, faceless and serene, emerged from the shadows, clutching a towering cross adorned in gold. this wasn’t just ritual – it was reverence in motion. tradition whispered through every fold of his robe, through every echoing footstep in the courtyard. i didn’t ask for permission. i witnessed. i remembered.