In those highlands passed the distant childhood of someone who never returned, except
for sporadic and brief visits to “kill saudades”, reminiscing dreams of yesterday, and to
revive some characters of the ancient familiar mythology, feeling at every turn the pinch
to see how much had changed and vanished the landscape of the old days.
What was so big and roomy, so broad and exuberant to the old boy's eyes, assumes now,
to the sight a little tired of the ups and downs of life and so long absences, no less pleasing
proportions to the contemplation of natural beauty, but devoid of illusions of that innocent,
inexperienced and somehow reduced look … of other times.
And a certain amount of nostalgia for so many things past.
Old people, familiar figures, animals, plants, the almost dry river, my reddish fur calf of the favourite cow, the wild Rosada, fierce, frantic [in the language of grandfather, the grand old man in the region, at his time land and master of almost all around], my trotting Ruciño, which at this point must be very happy grazing in the green fields of equine paradise, the restless birds, tuins (Forpus) on the ceiba whooping with joy and green staining the blue air of the Sierra, sanhaços, bentevis, sabiás, anum, tico-tico, columbinas, the loud crying shy seriema causing such tremendous commotion on the top of the hill, the loud marriage of the ovenbird couples, and on the slopes and woods the yellow and purple splendor of our ipês …
Oh, better stop, otherwise …