Los colosos ya no cantan. Pueden esperar sentados el amanecer al otro lado del Nilo. Se han quedado helados, ninguna nota surge de sus gargantas de piedra. Ni héroe griego ni faraón se atreven a alzar la voz. Los colosos se han quedado mudos.
En el lado oeste del río, al sur de las imponentes necrópolis tebanas, las dos gigantescas estatuas que Amenofis III erigió en vida como puerta de entrada a su complejo funerario, son prácticamente lo único que resta de tan grandiosas construcciones que llegaban incluso a superar en esplendor a las columnas y relieves del hermoso templo de Karnak. Con el rostro debastado por el tiempo las dos efigies continúan observando cada mañana la línea violeta por donde asciende el dios sol dispuesto a abrasar en un instante las arenas y las rocas como una mecha encendida. Pero los colosos ya no cantan.
Cuenta el geógrafo Estrabón que en el año 27 a. C. un terremoto tembló bajo los pies de los colosos y por alguna razón desde entonces las dos moles de cuarcita alzaban un canto de alabanza al sol naciente que surgía ante sus ojos al otro lado del Nilo. Hubiera dado algo por escuchar semejante salmo cuando la luz invadía la tierra justo antes de incendiarlo todo, oír ese clamor mineral. Que los científicos modernos se empeñen en demostrar que todo se debía a la prosaica evaporación del agua alojada en las fisuras de la piedra producto del cambio de temperatura, no le resta un ápice de encanto a la hazaña. Desde luego prefiero los mitos a la física. Ni siquiera la mano torpe del emperador Septimio Severo tratando de restaurar lo irrestaurable, privándonos así para siempre del canto de los colosos, pudo borrar la imagen apabullante de las sólidas gargantas bufando a pleno pulmón.
Cuando los griegos se enfrentaron a tan sorprendente fenómeno no duraron en olvidar al insigne faraón e identificar las efigies con las de Memnón, hijo de la Aurora, que cantaba religiosamente cada nuevo día ante la aparición de su madre la cual llora eternamente su muerte a manos del pérfido Aquiles.
(Colosos de Memnón, a orillas del Nilo, enero de 2002)
COLOSSAL (EGYPT)
The colossi no longer sing. They can wait seated for the sunrise across the Nile. They have been frozen, no note comes from their throats of stone. Neither Greek hero nor Pharaoh dare to speak out. The colossi have remained silent.
On the west side of the river, south of the mighty Theban necropolis, the two giant statues erected in his lifetime by Amenhotep III as the entrance to his mortuary complex are practically all that remains of such great buildings that even exceeded in splendor to the columns and reliefs of the beautiful temple of Karnak. With the face erased by time, the effigies still observe every morning the purple line where the sun god rises ready to scorch in a flash the sand and rocks like a lit fuse. But the colossi no longer sing.
As the geographer Strabo tells, in the year 27 BC an earthquake shook under the feet of the colossi and for some reason since then the two quartzite statues raised a hymn of praise to the rising sun that came before them across the Nile. I would have given anything to hear such a psalm as the light invaded the ground just before burning all, hear that mineral cry. Modern scientists insist on showing that everything was due to the prosaic evaporation of water housed in the rock fissures by the change of temperature, but that does not detract one iota of charm to the feat. Of course I prefer myths to physics. Not even the clumsy hand of Emperor Septimius Severus trying to restore the impossible, thus depriving us forever of the song of the giants, could erase the amazing image of the solid throats puffing their lungs.
When Greeks faced such a striking phenomenon they had no doubt to forget the famous pharaoh and identify the images with those of Memnon, son of Dawn, who sang religiously each new day with the appearance of his mother who cries forever his death at the hands of the perfidious Achilles.
(Colossi of Memnon, by River Nile, January 2002)
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COLOSSAL (EGYPT)
The colossi no longer sing. They can wait seated for the sunrise across the Nile. They have been frozen, no note comes from their throats of stone. Neither Greek hero nor Pharaoh dare to speak out. The colossi have remained silent.
On the west side of the river, south of the mighty Theban necropolis, the two giant statues erected in his lifetime by Amenhotep III as the entrance to his mortuary complex are practically all that remains of such great buildings that even exceeded in splendor to the columns and reliefs of the beautiful temple of Karnak. With the face erased by time, the effigies still observe every morning the purple line where the sun god rises ready to scorch in a flash the sand and rocks like a lit fuse. But the colossi no longer sing.
As the geographer Strabo tells, in the year 27 BC an earthquake shook under the feet of the colossi and for some reason since then the two quartzite statues raised a hymn of praise to the rising sun that came before them across the Nile. I would have given anything to hear such a psalm as the light invaded the ground just before burning all, hear that mineral cry. Modern scientists insist on showing that everything was due to the prosaic evaporation of water housed in the rock fissures by the change of temperature, but that does not detract one iota of charm to the feat. Of course I prefer myths to physics. Not even the clumsy hand of Emperor Septimius Severus trying to restore the impossible, thus depriving us forever of the song of the giants, could erase the amazing image of the solid throats puffing their lungs.
When Greeks faced such a striking phenomenon they had no doubt to forget the famous pharaoh and identify the images with those of Memnon, son of Dawn, who sang religiously each new day with the appearance of his mother who cries forever his death at the hands of the perfidious Achilles.
(Colossi of Memnon, by River Nile, January 2002)
(c) Copyright del texto y de las fotos: Joaquín Moncó
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