The dialogue in two voices in unison begins. The conflict between two tongues. The first is feminine, soft, but secure, out with a language almost strange, unfamiliar, but known at the same time. Maria Lada walks thru her Galician poetry. By the beginning of a story, that reads like this: In the most western coast the waves break... And it follows a spasmodic litany that tells the legend, or not, of an island that appears gradually as a mirror and that you can enter only on precise dates. The other begins is masculine and deep. We are accustomed to this candent sound that has a comforting familiarity. Suddenly, the stronger intonation of Ricardo Correia meddles, rediscovers it softness, and speaks in a tone full of pain, of loss: November hurts immensely, when the sea breaks on the rocks. It is a kind of dialogue between two lovers that initiates before my eyes. Is not her looking at him, nor he looking at her, more like a speech of two beings that go on missing each other. He says with an absent gaze: No balm for an arm amputated. You never ask for me. Perhaps is nothing more than the mirage of a relationship, which appears as an island gradually as in a mirror. They know it came to an end, it died, but the longing, ahh, the nostalgia does not kill, but tears you apart inside.
