Blowin' in the Wind

Those days in the garden at Prospect Cottage, with time suspended or off elsewhere bothering someone else, were as rich as days can be. Digging in the shingle, scattering seeds, cutting back the santolinas, breathing in the heavy scent of the sea kale. I can't think of a better use for my senses and soul.

--Howard Sooley, "Derek Jarman's Hideaway".

Bob Dylan canta desentendido del público. Bajo sus pies, una rosa de los vientos. Lleva traje negro con rayas rojas a los costados de los pantalones, botones de metal, un sombrero blanco. Botas. Canta y balancea las piernas. Al final, junta a su grupo y, en medio de ellos, se mece, como si se abrazara a sí mismo. Yo abrazo a MP. Y sólo entonces, termino de entender: acabo de ver, acabo de escuchar a Bob Dylan, desentendido también del público, abrigado por el abrazo de MP, como si estuviéramos ante el mar en Dungeness, en el jardín de Prospect Cottage, la casa negra con marcos y puerta amarillos a nuestra espalda, una canción en la brisa:

How many roads must a man walk down
Before you call him a man?
Yes, 'n' how many seas must a white dove sail
Before she sleeps in the sand?
Yes, 'n' how many times must the cannon balls fly
Before they're forever banned?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind.

How many times must a man look up
Before he can see the sky?
Yes, 'n' how many ears must one man have
Before he can hear people cry?
Yes, 'n' how many deaths will it take till he knows
That too many people have died?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind.

How many years can a mountain exist
Before it's washed to the sea?
Yes, 'n' how many years can some people exist
Before they're allowed to be free?
Yes, 'n' how many times can a man turn his head,
Pretending he just doesn't see?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind.

Así las cosas.