Hot Seen Of Mera Nam Jocker

Fire

The land is the land and the land of these places crumble, does not burn and does not smile, but limps and wears a wire dissolves as soon as the sun fades. The pallor of the evening was reflected on the windows steamed up that obscure the outside, the air pregnant with a rain swollen and waiting, and is sprinkled smoke sunsets terse, dispersed in a salt horizon , flat and exhausted, that late, late without warning. Chimneys knead fire, pounding wood, chop, and finally spit embers smoke from dirty coal pinnacles at the top, pushing the mist and white benches arranged in order. The fire rises and flies like a wet cloth and tears at times as the wind, silent and stern, tight and hard as you pull the sheets on a bed of spring arrived much too early. The glimmer of rotten mold is the voice that blinds the heart and radiates the houses, the glow that illuminates the shadows and silence of one who is gone, the cracks in the faces of those sad smiles that exude chases the night one day el 'Another well, the prayers blaspheme in rapt silence.

In Fortunato's house is an intense aroma of chicken soup that mixes with that of boiled broccoli, let alone to boil on the stove. E 'thick atmosphere thickened and opaque that shines in the air sated, full of moisture and steam, covering everything from utensils to chairs, like a gray patina. The sound of gurgling of boiling split from the kitchen is a lullaby that knows no permanent acute, but it is sufficient to alter the deafening silence of early morning. Fortunato is a man of middle age and lives with his wife Crown, a woman transplanted Galician here. Fortunato is no longer working lives of his pension that has accrued in Switzerland, where he has been working for many years, first as a painter and then as a worker in a paint factory, then as a carpenter. Today is the same yesterday and Fortunato always sits on a wooden bench skinned, and devours the time thinking of his country that no longer recognizes, looking at the water fountain pissing with the same spray, think of Switzerland, which has betrayed him because took away her children and looks at his hands to see in the streets and in the veins in the palms etched memories of the time when he had the power, when he got up early in the morning with more clothes on the day before. Look at the moss that comes from underground that can climb walls and tuff and tufts of grass that pass over the stone pavement, drooling out in clumps and are silent forever and do not move more.