IX
VIII
De pronto y sin avisar, llegó Ella. El rugido de su cochecito era escuchado a leguas pero, lejos de ser estridente y molesto, llamaba la atención de los lugareños que se agolpaban y pegaban sus narices a las ventanas como niños. Ella, romántica y fugitiva, recorría las calles de Woongmoolungwoong, dejando a su paso aquel rastro pigmentado de propaganda, de cambio, de renovación, de progreso y desalienación. Y de lucha y de proclamas de color. De color. De color se volvieron las calles que en su movimiento creían, de color los habitantes, las caras, los cuerpos, las almas, que venían condenándoles al gris voraz últimamente. Su filosofía fue criticada, amada, seguida, rechaza, fue bendita, fue malvada. Fue, en fin, pensada. Un jueves cualquiera, tal y como llegó, Ella se fue, dejando a toda la ciudad pensando. ¡Qué bonito el pensar! ¡Qué exótico! ¡Qué excepcional!
All of a sudden and without notice, she came along. The growls of her tiny car could be heard from leagues away, but away from being strident and bothering, y captivated the local´s attention who rushed and stuck their noses to windows as little kids would. She, romantic and fugitive, walked down the Woongmoolungwoong streets leaving a trace of pigmented propaganda of change, renewal, progress and desalinization. Of fight and proclamation of colors. Of colors. Into color turned the streets that believed in her movement, the inhabitants, their bodies, souls and faces that had lately been condemning them into that voracious grey. Her philosophy was criticized, loved, followed, unaccepted, it was blessed, it was malevolent. A Thursday much like any other, just as she had come, she left, leaving the whole city reflecting. How beautiful it is to think! How exotic! How exceptional!
All of a sudden and without notice, she came along. The growls of her tiny car could be heard from leagues away, but away from being strident and bothering, y captivated the local´s attention who rushed and stuck their noses to windows as little kids would. She, romantic and fugitive, walked down the Woongmoolungwoong streets leaving a trace of pigmented propaganda of change, renewal, progress and desalinization. Of fight and proclamation of colors. Of colors. Into color turned the streets that believed in her movement, the inhabitants, their bodies, souls and faces that had lately been condemning them into that voracious grey. Her philosophy was criticized, loved, followed, unaccepted, it was blessed, it was malevolent. A Thursday much like any other, just as she had come, she left, leaving the whole city reflecting. How beautiful it is to think! How exotic! How exceptional!