Elisa Routa
" The first drop is the fragile prelude to the awkward orchestra,
I feel privileged when I feel it sliding over me. "
From the curvature of the tiles, she throws herself without harness. I see her fall discreetly
before spreading out almost imperceptibly, on the still warm tar.
In its gritty belly, the ogre is ready to swallow her. But she is not alone, just the first. It takes
courage to set out without example. In summer, the raindrop is reckless and wears the
costume of anonymous heroes. In a bird's voice, it announces the storm that will soon crack
nonchalantly like the back of a hunchback. The first drop is the fragile prelude to the clumsy
orchestra, I feel privileged when I feel it sliding over me. First wetting my forehead, it picks
up speed on the bridge of my nose. Sometimes it ends its flight on the edge of my lips,
reminding me of the tears I wanted to hide.
" Here, raindrops claw at the sky and fall so often
that one wonders if the ocean is still a little salty "
The kind raindrop is followed by a thousand others. Together they become insolent, as
dizzying as a lover's words. Their indelicacy is reminiscent of the champagne cork that flees
from its cradle, with great stride, with resolution. No one can predict their course, not even
the cloud that saw them leave the nest. The drops then seem as soft as cork, thick and
engorged, full of a new life from which they were thought to be spared. Many of them could
injure skulls and bodies, so much so that they have the size of gravel paths. Although we
skid on them, although we slip, although we fall, in the Basque Country, we no longer look
at them here, the raindrops scribble, the sky collapses so often that we wonder if the ocean
is still a little salty.
Only when the land is as dry as a grandmother's wrist, we call them names like queens and
come close to asking for their hand. We come to the jewellery store thirsty and welcome
them with the fervour of a river of diamonds. As offerings, we throw ourselves into the
ocean to catch them around the neck, not to twist them, not even to make necklaces, but to
extinguish them, to feel them alive, to know them closer. Then, in summer, with our big
boards, we are convinced, we end up sliding on the back of a hunchback.
Elisa Routa
