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"Over the sea ice that nobody knows,
an iceberg passed as a huge lily,
spend more quiet than the big ships and the sea
lights of intense whiteness."

Gabriela Mistral The Song of Los Indios

unknown lands man in a distant dawn saw fueguino peek into wet sand and cool links. Since then emerged with their brown faces, horizontal, wide cheeks, mouth falling, large plant and harmonious body from the inhospitable nature of the wild South. It was planted between stormy rains, leaving their mark spread wide, which mixed as an equal, a male guanaco, the wild pampa and the lost channels. They took the tree and opened fire. Taught him to be nomadic and so, so like his own raw, hard and proud fire walked the desolate island, spread by step and ended up teaching ahombrado between the oceans, between the endless dark night and the name of the southern land . Hunted, as they were hunted by the wind, and I can see still, her face sullen and crystallized, their arrows run losses to the leather walking up to his fellow death. Logs and devoured their flesh, took their skins and were entertained, tore their fat and were protected. Knew no slavery of the subject, but always appreciated genius and human ability. Sin wrong though, if somewhat wild nature and fierce Templar lay a domain and unacceptable to replicas, was the power of sex, the woman who was simply obedient flora subdued the man, sun and rain.
But while some took in their hands the forests and grasslands, and there clung against the wind, fly to other channels dejáronse satins, that eternal moment in time were able to enrage his heart and formed into ridges, mountains and sea vultures . Sea were these Indians dissimilar to others, even when they retain the mud that forged them, were more amorphous and small. But that does not declined, flourished on the contrary, more jovial and polyurethane foam, of smiles and loving eyes of his land. They channel, among many, today English name, his life and shell. From its depths, with the savagery of survival, the beauty of predation, absorbed his riches fell from below molluscs, penguins, seals and fish. Emerge the female swimmer, with subtle mastery and obedience naive, indifferent to the icy water of the ocean, oblivious to the roar of those channels.

The Evening of Story

happened that one day, from the distance of an ocean from the vastness of another story appeared in the sky background star ocean timber. That was the white hand of our adoptive mother, the English grip that came to stay, to put an end to the maternal line, to end the story of man and nature. Could see, maybe not, open your eyes to Magellan from your deck and watch from there, from the pangs of a sea murderer, little lights up infinite survival. They thought that was able to escape from hell, its secret entrances. Felt from afar as the indomitable heat was eaten by cold ancestral wild years.
hidden landscapes rather than a biblical Eden, escaped from civilized topography, green walls, the fierce ocean, night blinds, wildlife live prey of imperialism were not arrogant, an adventurer who brought a new world where land and sea fueguino did not fit. Well, I must be clear, the man reached in the first instance was fierce, bold and severe, victim, like the Indian, a splendid time and hypocritical. But it took years
eternal, also spent centuries in Spain and tried to hunt the white man could not, wanted to hunt the nature and she chased him. The denuder won, of course, but we can tell the pride of the red blood of our indigenous heritage, that this man had to suffer with the untamed grace our distance in a remote desert island. Dam were not bullet cold, hunger insulation is not cannon, land alone is not forgotten that boat.
already said that they were defeated, his ears and his blood flew frost seeded the extermination of a noble race in paradise for their children. Everything was running swiftly and it was a natural metaphysical underworld was being kept in the trunk of history, where it is eaten away the memory of his language, the silence of their lives, the goodness of its people, the portrayal of their bodies.
Finally, to make a trial already known, other men came from even further and made it disappear. Whipped diseases and their hardened bodies did not tolerate the impurity of civilization. Fell as soldiers in their land, as the rain that revived, as the river when it reaches the sea, simply fell silent and forgotten in the miraculous land where two oceans meet, where contrast our fears and illusions, where our story breaks and civilization is born. As Martin Gusinde asked the priest, photographer of these towns, I examined him in the same way: Where have they been, the people beautiful, simple and robust, hardened by inclement weather? They, the legitimate sons of this land, they had to give up their pastures to thousands of sheep graze peacefully in the vast steppes! ...