I live in a country where poverty is legalized and William (fictitious name to something that should be fiction) passes the right hand by the eye on the same side, scrub again and again wet skin, wrinkles to show that not only inside time passes. Is seventy-one, an entire working life behind, and now he has left is home to always fall in the final quarter ever. I live in a country where poverty is not a crime hand always in tears, people around to look scared. A poor scares people, you know Ask me, and big blue eyes as if to apologize for the smell of those who do not know what is hot water for years, hands that move as if searching for the reason for life. Sometimes, as a matter of respect, I give up to reach out and ask, I know people have their problems and do not know me. In these days opt for bins and not even have given me evil account, and can smile the bravest smile there, and this time are now my tears want to go out; stand and press on, ask her what she was doing, which led there, that piece of nothing in life so great that it was. I worked in the works, had a grocery store, then to open a restaurant, see there. But then came this thing the crisis and had to go back to forced labor. But no one wanted me. It was already too old to work and was still too young to stop working stops one second, maybe two, and still, the tears stopped but not the head. He was too old to live and too young to die the lives of all the old in this country, and so many old in this world, defined in one sentence, I feel like hugging him, tell him to come home with me, Ill do what I can and what can not so anything you miss, but nothing I tell you: I know that if there is something that does not lack is pride left to those who have nothing. There have been those who wanted to help me, give me a life far from here, where there is good water to drink and food to eat good. But I do not. Others worked to accept die alms the expression is in my head, he explains it, there may be another tear almost out. Living on alms there, you know? Living on alms there. Who come here for alms is dying of alms, and I worked so, so, you know? I do not want what they do not deserve it, never wanted that did not deserve. I just want what I was told that I would have, but here in this country, do not know if I told you, poverty is not a crime, it seems that there are politicians who legalized reveals and shows a newspaper as worn as the skin of the arms, the news of any state budget approved to cover all the first page. What they want is that the guys be afraid to be like me. Nothing scares more than poverty, do not know if it had been said. Poverty is not the end but is a moving end, will eventually within us, leading us will gradually; begins by pride, then leads to self-confidence, until, if we are not careful, we are nothing, we can only ask and be in the hands of those who put us well. But to me these people do not take. To me this does not take us the words swishes like a flag, white for peace and never surrender, more and more people around us, the night to fall and, in the distance, the sky, the rain promise almost upon us. What they want is that we take refuge from the rain, you know? They want us to be afraid to get wet and take refuge from the rain, and so, for that, do what they want. What they want is for us all to be lambs, and they say goes and we go, and they send is and we were. We are all as we are now, even now, the rain to fall and almost every one of us to have to choose whether home or is allowed to stay until the rain starts right people to run, the cafes fill around, the awnings of busy shops, me and William alone in the street. You see how all run? This is what they do again rocked the newspaper, wet leaves to fall apart. Threaten coming rain, rain do the same, and people flee it, its easier to pretend that holds up well; people prefer to be modest, hidden watering. But look: my grandmother, God put it in a special place, always told me that those who walk in the rain gets wet, and Id rather be all soggy than just slightly wet, you know? If it is to water that serves to wash, she said to me the deserted street, he and I stews, and for a moment until the wrinkles seem to disappear under the water. All waters serve to heal. No longer will you be in my time but I am sure that one day people will realize that all waters serve to heal, and then the revolution comes. Then the revolution comes. I will die, do you know the, with the hope of revolution, and even is not a bad way to die, do you? smiling, life lost in lost teeth, pass me a hand through his shoulder, give me a friendly pat on the back, and keep his way, the rain and his silhouette, the night to close, and a final refusal when I ask him whether accompanying or that leads somewhere: Let it be. I stay here where it rains. And it gets. And it gets.
Posted on: Tue, 13 Jan 2015 00:29:51 +0000
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