ramps wide staircases, dirty and dusty lead the crater to the sea, accompanied him by the hand. A dramatic voices and crumpled welcomes fishermen who return from the water. Thirsty and have little desire to speak. They walk without looking, with his head down cursing, mumbling some gibberish, and finally the decision to curse God with open arms that protrude from the opposite shore. The men are forged from the sea rough and silent, even during the day night, silent and fearless. Exiles at home. Lost. Finally they stop on the rocks, are abandoned, exhausted magnificence of the sunlight of mid-day, smoking cigarettes before falling asleep under the frayed straw hats and white beards and uncultivated. Do not talk or look. The day is not yet fallen, but for them it is already night. Their bodies greet life for a few minutes while the spill barges laden with fresh fish nets. The fruits of the sea are still packed into the bellies of fishing boats that are coming in dribs and drabs in the port of Torre and the Greek crowd lined up on the platform. Later, a string of light bulbs hung reflects a dim light and yellow on white marble and shiny freshly washed by the cold spray pumps. Alongside piles of boxes stacked and properties of polystyrene. The market is waiting to enter the scene, including the remains of shattered buildings, skeletons Ship repair and deposits in smoky and smelly. All around was a smell of tar and scattered cod, oil and oil, mussels and paint. The port shows its salty skin, his face poor and emaciated, dirty and haggard, overwhelmed with tires, garbage and all kinds of papers and old refrigerators and old iron piled up.
Meanwhile, the flood continues to chip the stone blocks arranged randomly in the salt and crumble in scent, making steam and dust. 'E criatura fearlessly dive and wallow in the black sea, some are the mussels on the rocks.
The fish in the sky to greet the return of the trawlers on which the nodes while they prepare for the next day. It 's a thrill rushed networks rewound with calloused hands, contrite eyes of the tired, wet and muddy ropes quickly rearranged and placed in the boxes. The dog slumped forward, astounded by the sun, lying on a bed of semimorente crowded networks. In the evening the salt corrodes the skin and flags of the wind bow tear without fear. The sea is open and messed up, the sand is black and dark, the wind lowering of the water. The fishermen are slowly returning home with bags full of squid, octopus and cuttlefish. The curtain of the market falls, the night is coming to pick them up again. Wolves have rewound the hooks, pulled off the barrels and buckets and stored for the next day to the stale bread that will fool the fish again.
Meanwhile, the flood continues to chip the stone blocks arranged randomly in the salt and crumble in scent, making steam and dust. 'E criatura fearlessly dive and wallow in the black sea, some are the mussels on the rocks.
The fish in the sky to greet the return of the trawlers on which the nodes while they prepare for the next day. It 's a thrill rushed networks rewound with calloused hands, contrite eyes of the tired, wet and muddy ropes quickly rearranged and placed in the boxes. The dog slumped forward, astounded by the sun, lying on a bed of semimorente crowded networks. In the evening the salt corrodes the skin and flags of the wind bow tear without fear. The sea is open and messed up, the sand is black and dark, the wind lowering of the water. The fishermen are slowly returning home with bags full of squid, octopus and cuttlefish. The curtain of the market falls, the night is coming to pick them up again. Wolves have rewound the hooks, pulled off the barrels and buckets and stored for the next day to the stale bread that will fool the fish again.
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