Torreznos of Soria

We went on summer vacation to the Black Lagoon

So black we couldn’t find it.

We got a little sad, 3 out of 10 sad.

And blackened by the lagoon.

The car cheered us up and we kept going,

as if we were wheels.

When we arrived where the Sorians live,

we got out of the car and unfolded the maps.

There we saw the Moncayo,

an elegant companion mountain.

We breathed the air thick with reddish soil,

windmills and solar farms.

The birds warned us of the solar farms,

of the windmills, of the reddish soil.

The reddish soil has never done anything wrong,

0 out of 10 wrong.

The birds warned us,

but they were birdsong warnings.

The Sorians climb in procession to the Moncayo

and make offerings.

They kneel and spread out the springs

that flow from the mountain, like carpet vendors.

“Yes. They are only birdsongs,” they told us.

“But beware of the torreznos!”

the Sorians laughed.

The Moncayo rises above a plain

full of torreznos.

The torreznos, wild in their composure,

watch from behind the fences, grazing at ease.

The place belongs to the torreznos.

They could knock down the fences,

break free, liberate themselves.

But the reddish soil restrains them,

the winds of the mills, the glare of the solar panels.

Also the children of the Sorians.

They patrol the roads at night,

the black roads, the ones that lead to the lagoon.

Armed only with the flashlights of their phones,

one after another, like fishermen,

they keep the torreznos from escaping their enclosures

and hurling themselves against us.

Then the car called us back

to the underside of summer,

the one of cold wind and earlier darkness.

It was night as night was falling.

We had to return,

as if we were a famous band, stars.

The car, satisfied, thanked us for the visit

and lit up its wheels.

4 out of 10 wheels.