Original Text by Cesar Sandoval / English Translation by Robert Ruz

This land stares at hope from down south, and carries one short story inside everyone of us. This continent made of bended silences sneaks into us under the shade of blistering, copper sunsets.

Puerto Madryn, Argentina

Patagonia is the course of dreams. We get there empty-handed, only with our dry, empty, silent soul. Slowly, like short sips, like an invasion of deafening, allucinating winds, the word is born just to slip from our lips inwards, and become chant.

El Chaltén, Argentina

Time wandered along the gorge. One man, one only man for such a vast landscape. The never ending agony of tundra memorizing ancient rains. That was the new land. A man’s land is forged in blood, as wind blew its rugged flute. And you stay without even realising it, letting time slip away idly.

Viedma Glacier, Argentina

Later, like short sips again, the miracle comes to us.

Torres del Paine, Chile

Now is time for long trails, stretched distances, dilated expanses. But you are not alone anylonger, even when the sandy wind strikes fiercely. You are not alone. The army of dusty, ancient deaths settles in your memory, bones, word.

Torres del Paine, Chile

This land, half dream, half despair, represents the exact center of wait; the most shivering corner of nostalgia.

Viedma Lake, Argentina