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The weather has conspired with the commemoration. Day of ash. Gray day. The ash is a symbol, but not created: symbol of finitude, of what awaits us all. The belief, the act of faith is not the ash before it is caused by it: ash as a point of arrival or departure point ash. I like to think it is a starting point and that we all keep within a kind of phoenix, the uncertain promise of a resurrection. That hope is in the poem of José Angel Valente:

There is a remote light, however,

and I know I'm not alone;

even after all and therefore no

not a single thought can

against death,

am not alone.

No promises another life, certainly, but we are comforted in the knowledge of love that accompanies the loneliness of this life:

I play this hand

finally sharing my life

and she confirmed

and touch as love,

raised him to heaven

and even if I proclaim ash: ash.

The ash, after all, is a tremendous realism. Nothing can hide behind its simplicity, its nudity, in the ash, the art-life-has been reduced to mere skeleton. Point of departure or arrival point we have no choice but to build a hope from the ashes. For all that love is gray dust particles will eventually be reduced by the fire of time. The greater hope is hoped that the fire of love the wind redeem and breakdown, a flame or burning bright and regroup unlimited anime ash and again.

Although ash is all I have so far

soon as I have tended to hope so.

No matter what the ash is the point of departure or arrival point, rebirth or annihilation. The important thing is that calls for a rebellion: believe, love, love, hope, albeit from the precondition that all is ashes.

(The gray days and rain leads us to ourselves. May infect us the sadness of the evening, but the sadness is that helps them grow.)