Something seems certain: it is that windy winds made the geese of Huelves-nearby town, with an interesting Romanesque chapel with a circular plan-take off, arrive in Cuenca and after the bloody siege to which the Moorish garrison was subjected. that highlighted the courage of certain monks-warriors, custodians, on the other hand, of the Way, left an appreciable dose of their arcane wisdom, not only in the heraldic shields -some, badly wounded by that remorse that always accompanies time and which is called erosion-, in the old arcades with which, from one hill to the other, one stumbles while walking the spiral of ascending alleys of the old part, but also, and above all, in that splendid Gothic jewel in which, as He ventured in the previous entry, not only painted Cups and Swords, but also, unfortunately, suffered the crushing embers of the Bastos deck in a contemporary game, losing part of its original structure inal, detail by which it can instill the feeling of looking like an unfinished tower of Babel.
And yet, with that look of disheveled maiden, the cathedral, leave at the time you leave, it seems always a mysterious island that, like the legendary San Brandán and with the same zeal as the ancient dragons pawned at the time to protect the maidens who presumably kidnapped, safeguards a relevant treasure inside. It still preserves - certainly curious detail - its massive original wooden doors; some doors that, however little attention is paid, suggest, in view of those fierce Green-man or Green Men created in the fire of the tradition directly from the forge of the old and lame Hephaestus, the possibility of accessing that imitation of forest original, in whose enigmatic light sources Dianas provoked, with their full-fledged beauties, feverish devotions.
It matters little if in medieval times, the oaths that the druids performed around the boilers and in the light of the moon were changed, by the Full Dei Gratia with which the messenger Gabriel announced to a pubescent, trembling and bewildered Maria the role of new Mater that he would have to realize for future generations, since Deus Vult: God wants it.
The pilgrim thinks, crossing the threshold and with the thorny message of the statuary of the covers in mind, if, like modern Parsifal, he will dare to ask the right question, able to free from his old spell this temple of the Grail: the cup; the eight-pointed star; the cross kick formed by the formidable foundations that, in the manner of Saint Christopher, bear on their shoulders the divine ribs that warp under the magnitude of a vaulted sky; death, Muse of martyrdom, Apostle number thirteen or matron who maintains balance in the numerous family of the Mother; the roundabout, ambulatory or ouroboros where the past, the present and the future are synonyms of infinity, the alpha and the omega that looms over the tomb, auguring that indissoluble union between beginning and end, like that universal message, that under the symbol of the Cross of Life form the traceries of the triforium, which helps us to meditate on the indivisibility of the created.
Who does the Grail serve? The pilgrim wondered, as he left that metaphorical forest that, in some of its shadowy solitudes, the midday sun sculpted tiny worlds of color on the cold surface of walls and columns.
He was about to answer himself: the one who has ceased to be dead stone to become living stone. But he fell silent and continued walking up the street, in the direction of that snow of yesteryear that was one day, the ruined hermitage of San Pantaleón.
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NOTICE: originally published in my blog MEMORIES OF A PILGRIM, although the photographs shown here are unpublished. Both the text, photographs, and video (except music, reproduced under a YouTube license) are my exclusive intellectual property. The original entry can be found at the following address: https://jc347.blogspot.com.es/2017/03/cuenca-la-catedral-de-santa-maria-de.html