Paulo Coelho - AlephTweets

em Português en Español


The
conversation
continues,
time
passes
quickly
and
I
need
to
wrap
things
up.
For
the
last
question,
I
choose,
at
random,
out
of
the
six
hundred
people
there,
a
middle-aged
man
with
a
bushy
moustache.
"I
don't
want
to
ask
a
question,"
he
says.
"I
just
want
to
say
a
name."
The
name
he
pronounces
is
that
of
Barbazan-Debat,
a
chapel
in
the
middle
of
nowhere,
thousands
of
kilometres
from
here,
the
same
chapel
where,
one
day,
I
placed
a
plaque
in
gratitude
for
a
miracle
and
which
I
had
visited,
before
setting
out
on
this
pilgrimage,
in
order
to
pray
for
Our
Lady's
protection.
I
don't
know
how
to
respond.
The
following
words
were
written
by
one
of
the
other
people
on
stage
with
me:
In
the
room,
the
Universe
seemed
suddenly
to
have
stopped
moving.
So
many
things
happened:
I
saw
your
tears
and
the
tears
of
your
dear
wife,
when
that
anonymous
reader
pronounced
the
name
of
that
distant
chapel.
You
could
no
longer
speak.
Your
smiling
face
grew
serious.
Your
eyes
filled
with
shy
tears
that
trembled
on
your
lashes,
as
if
wishing
to
apologise
for
appearing
there
uninvited.
Even
I
had
a
lump
in
my
throat,
although
I
didn't
know
why.
I
looked
for
my
wife
and
daughter
in
the
audience,
because
I
always
look
to
them
whenever
I
feel
myself
to
be
on
the
brink
of
something
unknown.
They
were
there,
but
they
were
sitting
as
silently
as
everyone
else,
their
eyes
fixed
on
you,
trying
to
support
you
with
their
gaze,
as
if
a
gaze
could
ever
support
anyone.

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