It has arrived the time. Days -on the longest days of the year- ago that the bougainvilleas of Pedralbes are flowery fully. The waterfalls of purple go down from the upper gardens of the mansions for the walls of restraint until the inferior streets. The juices of the earth spread in all the nuances of the mulberry colors, from the lightest lilac, intensifying gradually for the violet and for the purplish one, until the “musc” strongly of those “barretines”, the traditional Catalan hats of the rich farmers.
Like every year, the bougainvilleas of Pedralbes have made it without haste but without pause, during all the spring. To arrive at the plenitude on days before the solstice of summer. From then, the jets of the sun will burn the colors, until becomes dry leaves, which the wind of autumn will pull out so that the naked stems pass the colds of the winter. And starting again, like every year, for centuries, for millennia, during whole civilizations.That one who does not know about these y rhythms of this inexorable punctuality, of this perfect watch of the life, does not know anything. Anything of the mystery that wraps us and where we are born, grow up, we reproduce and die.
The neighborhood looks very good, like each solstice of summer. In the fields of dry farming, the harvesting starts; in those of irrigated land, the apricots and the cherries ripen. The vineyards work day and night in order to the autumn and the olive trees have already fertilized the flowers that will be olives in the winter. Everything is fertility about the solstice, of the longest days of the year. Solstice fertility which a superficial analyst could think comes off very far from the bourgeois life in the mansions of Pedralbes. However, you have not seen the waterfalls of purple that go down of the upper gardens in the streets of under?
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