The chase

The night of July rolls possessed by the lunar shining; the western breeze tries to cover in tenuity of clouds the spherical light; and beyond, the ocean at night, Mare tenebrarum, houses of the dark Atlas.


The silent forests keep too many secrets, and paths not trodden yet; the silent woods have eyes, home of the wild boar; home of feminine or ethereal spectrums.

And home of the wolf.





Tonight is night of chase (in the hamlets lost in the mountains there's a strong credence in ancient, obscure legends mixed with a semi-pagan christianism; in the hamlets, lost in the mountains).


Since immemorial times the race of the men was enemy of the wolf; but at the same time exists a deep and superstitious fear to kill it: "The wolf belongs to Lucifer", they say.

There's a symbolism, unfathomable and strange, that links the Iberian wolf to the aboriginal human, stronger than any other animal link; because he never disappeared from these corners, where Europe becomes ocean.
He never disappeared completely.


The chase of the wölf was practised since pre-historic times; before the Romans, before Christ; the chase of the wolf is a heathen ceremony: the christianism never could erase the former, extravagant mythology...it rather deformed it and strengthened it.

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The discordant sound of the bagpipes flies across the empty sky, the fire of torchs it's seen from the distance.
There's a festive spirit blended with irrational fear.


The wolf sees
the wolf knows. 
Brother wolf...



...In the nights of the winter, when the snow becomes ice and the moon strolls her sinister light; when old women inside homes of stone, close to the fire, silence their terror
those nights the wolf will be still there.

Beholding, crying. Because he holds the mystery of the snow; and that sanguine kin.


But tonight, them, the humans; they do their chase.

An unreal smell of fire, silver and alcohol scorches the air; a smell of fear.


...The moon is a blue vagina now.


The wolf sees, the wolf knows.
Sister wolf...