In the morning...as a farm-hand leaves for the town
In the morning a
goods train rushes past the farms and the meadows, the light scarcely dragging
into view their placid green.
The borders of the rail-track are strewn with lamentable
cartons and warped plastic bottles. The rumble of the wheels and the rumble in
the sky are hardly alike
But the ear and the eye are starving for a sound.
A mysterious guard has hurled in passing, his jaded cargo of
unwanted metal trunks on both sides of the track in a careless frenzy of
freedom as if he was getting rid of a life-long burden of sorrows.
Close behind the hills the sky is still grey, but warming up
to memory, before the brother dropped a hurriedly scribbled note on a sepia page
of a dormant note-pad.
A window opens and the wind cracks like an unsuspected
presence of a glass-bottle falling on the ground with an encounter in the dark.
There is no legacy left for the farm-hand except for the
note of departure of a brother who left before the day-break to avoid the
turbulent good-bye.
The farms and the crops await with a heavy breath the
long-delayed arrival of rains.
The brother has vanished far into the distance without a
trail
Faces lost and hungry, will huddle into a knot and make a
path for a rough ride into the future, awaiting a light and hoping for the
strength that tomorrow the sun may bring and the dark may merge in the clouds
of rain.
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