I have traveled these paths countless times, which in reality could be considered paths of a monumental labyrinth, at whose crossroads, season after season, the spirit adopts the comparative vision of an alchemist and without the need to think about other banalities, attends, as a privileged spectator , to the different phases that the adept who embarked on the difficult task of carrying out the Great Work was symbolically going through.
To such an extent that the entire environment takes on the imaginary form of a monumental natural atanor, where the operations that certain medieval alchemists tried to imitate in the gloomy solitude of their private dwellings are carried out in silence and with absolute patience.
And I imagine that in this metaphorical atanor, the rough paths of cooking are left behind, represented by summer, where the draconian mercurial joys taken from spring are sublimated through the powerful influence of the king, the Sun.
The roads, covered with leaves, whose color resembles the mercurial tincture, whose liquefaction ends up yielding to the evaporation caused by the divine breath of the dragon.
And sinking into the honorable fatigue of the bath of Mary, the mercurial salts, released from their prison, mix with the raw and dark matter of the earth, waiting for that elemental fixer, the tears of the Moon Queen, which is the dew, with the one that will keep the royal nuptials, until their next awakening in spring.
The play ends, the dream continues its course, while the poet finishes his dreamy walk and on the silent paths, the womb of the Earth dreams of its new awakening.
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