Pasé por Atocha el viernes; ya lo dije. Flotaba en el aire un olor siniestro a goma quemada; hedor siniestro que habrá quedado asociado a la terrible tragedia en la memoria de quienes participaron en las tareas de rescate.
No sé si saben que Atocha, al menos el pasillo que conduce al metro, huele normalmente a orines y a sudor de los mendigos que en ella hacen su cama. Pero hoy, el olor humano se desvanece, como se desvanecía el de los peregrinos bajo el humo azul del Botafumeiro.
Hoy flota un olor a iglesia. Esta mañana dije: son velas perfumadas; huele a incienso. No, era mi imaginación: sólo huele a cera, a parafina. A cirio eclesiástico, a candela fúnebre, a llama perpetua.
Atocha huele a cirio; a cirio olerán también
nuestros corazones.
I passed by Atocha station last friday, as I said to you. The smell of burnt rubber floated in the air. That evil stink would probably be associated with the tragic event in the mind of every one who worked rescuing people.
Atocha —at least that passage that leads to the subway— usually stinks with the odor of urine and sweat of those beggars that set their beds on its floor. Today, that human stink fades, as the pilgrim's stink faded on the blue smoke of Botafumeiro incense.
Today a church-like smell floats in the air of Atocha; this morning I said to myself: "it's the scent of incense"; but it was not. It was only in my imagination. It's the smell of wax, the scent of paraffin. Smell of ecclesial candle, funeral lamp, perpetual flame.
Atocha smells like candles. So smell, also,
our hearts.
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