I have lived on this peak for millions of years. I know because I have been keeping track of the suns and moons. I am the son of time and of an old volcano that is no longer here. The wind, the sun, the rain and the passing of the days have made me what I am: the prince and sentinel of a kingdom made of stone. But I am not alone. The pine woods and rocks that keep me company on these heights give shelter to beings that seem to be made of the same light that is now starting to draw its veil back. Hence, the lizards here are made of gold, emerald and sapphire.
From my watchtower, the sunset seems a beautiful and at the same time confusing time. As the sun let us feel one last caress, behind the scenes the night gets ready to raise the curtain and reveal a stage of stars, where a night performance I cannot help but watch in awe will be repeated once again. I suppose it is the same for my neighbour, whose pyramid-shaped silhouette is clearly visible against the sunset sky. On days like today, it seems to be standing closer, even though we are more than a hundred kilometres apart, sixty-five of them across the deep Atlantic Ocean.
The night has already spread its mantle. All around me sleeps. I keep a petrified vigil. Life begins to wake up around me with the first rays of the new day. Swifts, kestrels, grey wagtails and African blue tits take flight. The brightness allows us to contemplate how the flowers of the malfuradas, an endemic species in the St. John’s wort family, mimic the sunrise. Shortly afterwards, as happens every day, some curious beings arrive at my feet and stare at me. They call my distant companion on this particular Mount Olympus above the clouds and the ocean, Teide. And, in case you were wondering, I, the sentinel that whispers to them, am called Roque Nublo.