There is an apocryphal
poet with the same surname Santayana, born in Madrid, although thirty-six years younger and the name of Andrew, who has left us an extraordinary poem, collected by Antonio Machado in his Cancionero apocryphal. It recalls not only her surname to the philosopher Santayana Geoge but this breeze of mystery and reflexivity:
THE MIRACLE
In Segovia, an afternoon, touring the mall
the Eresma bathing,
to read my Bible
I reached for the glasses case
in search of the scaffolding of my eyes, my flying balcony
eyes.
I opened the case with the gesture and doctoral
firm who says: Wait,
and now I see ...
see if I opened the case but inside, nothing
point de lunettes ... fled?
swear that something flashed when I opened the black top
tiny pocket coffin, and flying,
escape from confinement, a butterfly glass
my glasses.
The book under his arm, orphanhood
my eyes wandered
thinking up things that we laugh
dead at home have their double
where
should be or is an act of faith every glance.
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