Canto de las Yerberas - Lunabia

Song of the Herbalists There are women who didn't learn from books, but by listening to the rustling of leaves when the wind swept through the damp courtyards of old houses. Women who recognize the language of smoke, the sadness hidden behind tired eyes, and the invisible trembling of souls that have wept for too long. They know when to cut the rue, when to let the lavender rest under the moon, when the rosemary should be simmered slowly to cleanse the memory of fear. The herbalists know secrets that cannot be contained within words. That is why they walk slowly, as if they were listening to something that the rest forgot centuries ago. They carry the scent of cinnamon, of damp earth, of flowers drying by the fire. Some heal with ancient prayers. Others with silence. Others simply place their hands on the weariness of others, and something dark begins to slowly break. Because there are pains that cannot be erased with words. There are wounds that need smoke, warm water with herbs, a candle lit in the middle of the night, and someone to look at you with love as you slowly begin to breathe again. The herbalists learned from the grandmothers. And the grandmothers learned from other women who walked barefoot in the rain, gathering plants to save their families. Women who sang softly while preparing remedies, while cleaning houses heavy with sadness, while embracing those who arrived broken. That is why when a herbalist lights copal incense, when she blows cinnamon on a door, when she leaves white flowers near a bed, she is not merely performing a ritual. She is conversing with the ancient memory of the earth. She is reminding the world that there are still hands capable of healing without destroying. There is something sacred about them. Something impossible to fully explain. Perhaps that is why they were often called crazy, witches, strange, exaggerated. But even so, they continued planting medicinal plants, continued preparing oils, continued gathering dried leaves at dawn like someone collecting small fragments of hope. Because the herbalists understand that healing was never just about curing the body. Healing is also about bringing light back to a heart tired of surviving. And while the world runs, shouts, and forgets its roots, they remain there, mixing herbs in glass jars, writing prayers in old notebooks, speaking softly to the plants as if they were children of the universe itself. They know that every leaf holds a memory. That every seed contains a destiny. That even the smallest plant can teach something to a lost soul. That's why they still light fires on cold nights. They still cleanse fear with smoke. They still prepare baths for the weary spirit. They still believe in tenderness in a world that sometimes seems to forget how to love. Because there are still women capable of turning pain into a garden, sadness into medicine, and loneliness into a soft song of herbs swaying in the wind. Lyrics by Marcia Morales Montesinos Lunabia