La Pergamina (The Parchment)

I am the Parchment, the prepared skin that holds the written word. The Aqueduct brings me ink and quill; I hold the result. I am not the grinding millstone — I am the page that displays the poem. Some pages tell stories, some list laws, some sketch maps. I preserve the scribe's hand without grinding it into meal. I am the surface where art lives alongside commerce.

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A poet from Tarifa once wrote a hundred verses on my skin — no seal, no mark, only rhythm. The Millstone turned away; the Press would not stamp it. But the Scribe unrolled me in the Theatre and read the verses aloud. The travellers wept. Now I hold a special place for poems: they do not sell, they do not book, but they keep the compound human. I am stained with ink that will never wash off.