Rubén Figaredo: 18 HOLM OAKS DON’T MAKE A FOREST
A shepherd without sheep mixes in with the weathered adobe walls, passes in front of the disintegrating
church that teaches heaven inside its naked rib cage, with an altar full of chalked down signs and absent little virgins like the emigrated conscripts like the village romances, dying of sadness in some diocesan museum, piled up with its likes without another unction but the boredom of a lay brother who lost faith when touching what he was not supposed to. Sad.
