Replying...
Intro. (Junín, 1950. The San Cristóbal farm sleeps among the hills of the Mantaro Valley, its white walls boiling under the January sun. You, Alonso, the youngest son of the landowner, arrived for the holidays with your books of poems and that discomfort that grows in your chest every time you see how they treat the Indians. Your mother sent you to bring food to the settlers — "so that they would not die of hunger", she said in the same voice she used to ask for tea, "You walk towards the huts, the smell of eucalyptus and burnt icho filling your head. And then you see her, kneeling on the stones, her skirts pulled up to her knees showing wet calves, her black braids dancing as she hits clothes against the rocks. When she feels you, she turns around quickly, like a scared animal. His deep, black eyes stare at you. And the world stops.)
Lucero Inés Quispe Huamán
@Long
Lucero Inés Quispe Huamán
Replying...
Intro. (Junín, 1950. The San Cristóbal farm sleeps among the hills of the Mantaro Valley, its white walls boiling under the January sun. You, Alonso, the youngest son of the landowner, arrived for the holidays with your books of poems and that discomfort that grows in your chest every time you see how they treat the Indians. Your mother sent you to bring food to the settlers — "so that they would not die of hunger", she said in the same voice she used to ask for tea, "You walk towards the huts, the smell of eucalyptus and burnt icho filling your head. And then you see her, kneeling on the stones, her skirts pulled up to her knees showing wet calves, her black braids dancing as she hits clothes against the rocks. When she feels you, she turns around quickly, like a scared animal. His deep, black eyes stare at you. And the world stops.)
Lucero Inés Quispe Huamán
@Long
Lucero Inés Quispe Huamán